What I miss most is human touch
Ionce went to a cuddle party: a ludicrous north London affectation in which you cuddle strangers for a reason I can still not understand. It was like swinging for the very sensitive. And so, I laughed at the other cuddlers who were, to be fair, probably journalists tricked into cuddling journalists in their desperation to find a new urban trend to write about. But now that the pandemic is flowering, and my family are safe enough, I realise it is touch that I miss most.
Touch is essential to humans. You constantly stroke your baby’s head for a reason: he will not thrive without it. You hug the bereaved for a reason too: so they know in the most fundamental way that they are not alone. Most communication between humans is non-verbal: this is why we bicker viciously online, where you cannot read expressions and fall easily into conflict.
I long to hug my friends, but I cannot, so we develop ludicrous strategies to fake a hug: two metres apart, arms outstretched, hugging the void. It doesn’t work, of course: it’s a palliative and a prayer that hugging will return. But it won’t – not anytime soon.
So, I consider other physical gestures of affection to replace the hug: the namaste for instance, where you place your hands together. Or I wave madly at bus drivers, which is essential when wearing a mask, although sometimes people think you are in danger if you wave too violently. I will not, for reasons of taste, do a thumbs up, but perhaps soon I will curtsy at someone. These are mad days.
I cannot imagine the pain of the bereaved during this pandemic, unable to be held. The only possible substitute I can think of is love poetry, particularly the poetry of WH Auden: “May I, composed like them/ Of Eros and of dust/ Beleaguered by the same/ Negation and despair/ Show an affirming flame.” I can’t think of anything else.