Polly Vernon has her say

Which are you? (I’m at least three)

WHEN BOZZER THE JOZ first announced his roadmap out of lockdown in late Feb, I formally predicted the establishment of two tribes of re-emergers: those of us who could not get enough of it, versus those who preferred to stay at home, thanks all the same. Some weeks into the actual experience, it seems I was wrong. There are currently at least 37 tribal re-emergence divisions in evidence, with more forming all the time. Among which:

Nouveau Angsters

For whom this semi reopened country is fraught with hitherto unrecognised causes of distress and the despatching of multiple frantic dithery Whatsapp messages – for example: ‘But what if the pavement space of the restaurant we booked for the 7.30–9pm dinner slot tonight doesn’t have adequate heater/leg blanket provision, and I get really cold?’ Oh, but also: ‘What if it does, and I wear a spare vest and tights, then get too hot? What then?’

Nouveau Flakes

Once supremely competent, meticulously organised individuals whose timemanagement skills clean evaporated during 14 months of a life devoid of any and all forthcoming events, so now find themselves incapable of juggling so much as two physical appointments in the same week without double-booking themselves, then being late anyway.

Born-again Hedonists

Such as my friend D, who got drunk and overexcited in a friend’s back garden at the weekend, attempted to show off his upper body strength on a child’s swing set, didn’t, crashed to the ground and dislocated a thumb, smoked too much spliff, had a whitie, got sent home early in an Uber. ‘Best night of my life,’ D (late-40s, father of two) would tell me.

The Unfiltered, Unedited, Uncut

A year and a bit’s exposure to the babbling vacillations of their own interior monologue has left this lot blurry as to what they can and can’t express out loud, in a world that can a) hear them, and b) might slap them. Ref that woman who told the handsome young waiter in my local caff, of me: ‘Why do you always talk to her? She’s too old for you. I expect it’s because she hasn’t got kids. No baggage,’ thereby demonstrating zero respect for the fact handsome young waiter is also my mate, so could not wait to tell me all. And she spoke in earshot of her own child, who, though young, is certainly old enough to know when it’s being dismissed as ‘baggage’.

The Flamboyantly Batsh*t

Fair to say, the crisis hasn’t left any of us less eccentric than we used to be; I very much include myself in that, yes. Although I think I’m disguising it better than the bloke who ended up in the same tube carriage as me last week while wearing a gas mask and Alice band with realistic looking cat ear attachments, and who wasn’t even the most curious-looking person I saw that day.