LETTERS FROM LOCKDOWN
Astrange new experience. On Tuesday, I was about to take the train into London to report on the absurdity of the new Commons voting system. Then I saw the sign outside Gravesend station. “Face coverings,” it said sternly, “should be used on our services.”
And so, for the first time since the crisis began, I wore a mask – for the hour I was on the train, at any rate. How useful it was, I’m not sure. My carriage was near empty, and there was no one sitting within four metres of me, let alone two. Still, if these were the rules, I was happy to follow them. In any case, I was interested to find out what wearing a mask was like.
The answer, funnily enough, was that it made it harder to breathe – or at least, less comfortable, especially on such a boiling hot day. The lower part of my face was unpleasantly warm, and the air trapped beneath my mask grew thick and stuffy. I felt like a character in a Tintin book, having a chloroformed handkerchief clamped to his mouth by a scowling hoodlum.
As you can see from the photo, I looked a bit like a scowling hoodlum myself. Above my head was a National Rail poster that read: “Please keep your distance.” Seeing me in that mask, I doubt anyone needed to be told twice. If you think lockdown’s been tough here, think what it would have been like in South Africa. Its government has only just lifted a twomonth ban on buying alcohol. Apparently the ban was designed to reduce emergency admissions to hospital. Imagine. This country could never have got through lockdown without alcohol. It’s the only thing keeping most of us going.
And anyway, in Britain a ban would have been counterproductive. It wouldn’t have reduced emergency admissions to hospital. It would have increased them.
Just think of all the injuries sustained by people trying to beat down the doors of their local off-licence. I wouldn’t want you to think we’ve run out of ways to entertain ourselves in
Putting on a grave face
Wearing a mask wasn’t comfortable – but people certainly kept their distance
this house. But my son’s current favourite game is this: switching off the dishwasher.
The moment it starts beeping to signal the end of its cycle, he’ll squeal, “Me! Let me do it!” – and then scamper excitedly into the kitchen, to open the dishwasher door and press the off switch. It’s quite touching. He takes genuine pride and pleasure in it.
I can just picture him as an old man. “See, in my day we had to make our own fun. Some of these young folk today have probably never switched off a dishwasher in their lives…”
The air trapped beneath grew thick and stuffy. I felt like a character in a Tintin book