The buds of our freedom begin to cautiously emerge

Slowly but surely is the way out of this pandemic, though the end may be in sight, writes Anton Rippon

WITH apologies to Winston Churchill, is this the beginning of the end? Or the end of the beginning? You would need a crystal ball to know the answer. The only certainty is that it has been one heck of a year. And, just as in 1942, the war isn’t over yet.

I used to be one of those people who thought that, after I’d had the annual flu jab, I’d be totally safe from the bug. Then I’d complain that “I always get the flu after I’ve had the jab”.

Of course, it wasn’t the vaccination that gave me flu, it was the vaccination that reduced the severity of any subsequent illness. And anyone who has ever had a full dose of “ordinary” flu will vouch for how bad that can be.

So I worry when I hear people say that, once we’ve all been vaccinated twice, then we’ll be as free as birds to go where we want, with whom we want, and how we want. As I understand it, being fully vaccinated means that we are far less likely to suffer serious illness from Covid-19. But the virus will still be able to hitch a ride on us, maybe still infect us, albeit to a much lesser degree, and we will still be able to pass it on to others.

So, even after we’ve been jabbed twice, I reckon that we still have to move cautiously for some time yet. I’m not in too much of a hurry anyway. As my mum used to say, better to be safe than sorry. Like most mothers of her generation, she had a collection of such offerings. I always accepted that “worse things happen at sea”. “It’ll all end in tears” turned out to be almost right; in the event it all ended in tiers.

I was never too keen on “children should be seen and not heard”, and I never had anyone’s eye out with anything, despite predictions that it was an inevitable consequence.

Mum taught me good manners, too, and so if you see me opening a door for a woman, please be assured that I am not displaying “benevolent sexism”. I’m just being polite. I also hold doors open for men, and I’ll give up my seat on a bus to anyone of any age, gender, creed or colour if I think that they need it more than I do. It’s the way I was brought up.

That just stirred a memory. About 20 years ago I was on a bus going into town and a young woman kept smiling at me. And what man doesn’t appreciate a smile from a pretty girl? Then she stood up and offered me her seat. I was in my mid-50s, and it was the second time inside a week that I was reminded that I was getting old. The first was when I heard myself say: “I remember when it was all fields round here.”

You’ve got to smile, though, and even if losing at least a year of normal life when you’re in your mid-70s is a bit disconcerting at times, you can’t change that, so you may as well try to enjoy however each day unfolds.

The daylight hours are increasing, the birds are performing their courting dances, there are buds on the trees and frogspawn in the pond.

Never mind the restrictions that have been placed on us by the pandemic, as Charles Dickens said: “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.”

Soon we may be able to see friends, sit outside, share a bottle of wine or a few beers, have a laugh. Slowly at first, of course. But if everyone is extremely careful, then it may just be the beginning of the end, after all.

Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m off to watch an episode of George and Mildred.