Masks don’t build confidence, they destroy it
This ‘new normal’ makes life so unpleasant that many people will prefer to stay at home than go out
There was a time when England mandated masks on public transport but Scotland did not. A friend took the train from Glasgow to London, and the guard told him: “Don’t forget to put your mask on at Carlisle!”
It was dishonest and silly (a virus doesn’t become more virulent as it crosses the border), and I’d have been tempted to get off and stay in Scotland.
Masks are horrible and inhuman. The best reason I’ve heard for wearing one is politeness – “I don’t mind catching something off you, but I don’t want you to catch something off me”. In a clinical environment they make sense. But if the science behind them is so strong, why are they being pushed at the very moment when old Covid is receding?
The answer, I suspect, is that they are about catching coughs and sneezes, of course, but also about tempting the nervous to leave the house: masks are part of the architecture of the “new normal”, an effort not only to make
Britain safe but also to make it look and feel safe, regardless of the actual effectiveness of each measure.
Anyone who has returned to church will discover that, in some parts of the country, the priest wears a mask, services are shorter, the congregation is rushed in and out and you can’t even sing. And the problem with this sort of “new normal” is that it aims to bring Britain back to life yet makes life so unpleasant that many people will prefer to stay away. In other words it repels at least as much as it attracts.
That’s certainly my feeling. I hate masks but I respect other people, respect the law and will obey it – hence I’m going to avoid public transport for so long as it treats me like a highly infectious child. I’ll walk or, better still, decline all invitations. Ministers know stubborn citizens like me will be making such calculations, which is why they are so reluctant to make masks mandatory in shops: if sales staff have to police customers, customers, they fear, won’t go in.
The PM’S libertarian instincts have been pretty good on this thus far, and I hope he continues to err on the side of creative ambiguity.
I don’t like going out, but I do love
a good church, and I didn’t realise how much I missed being an altar server. Yesterday I was back in the vestments, and there are so many exciting new rituals to learn, such as “The Disinfecting of the Altar Rails”. As the priest distributes the communion, one has to follow behind, rubbing down each rail with a wet wipe and all the prayerful dignity you can muster.
I went into the lavatory and discovered that someone had had a small accident. I cleaned that up, too, and told the priest. “Nothing too serious?” he asked.
“A missed target. I’ve dealt with it.” “The Christian vocation comes in many forms,” said Father, wisely.
“I don’t mind,” I shrugged. “Jesus came as a man.”
It’s a cliché but it’s true: Christianity is an incarnational religion, which means God became man and we see God in other people, which is why we need churches so much – and why it was so wrong to close them.
The idea of Christians running away from the sick is horrendous. Even if the intentions were good; it’s not heroic, it’s not human and it’s not what we’re about. Christianity is not ascetic – it smells of incense, not bleach – and it’s courageously tactile. Just as St Thomas stuck his finger in Christ’s wound to prove he was real, so we have our sacraments, our images, buildings and books – and each other – to cling to and revere, behold and love. “Come and see!” said Jesus.
How sad that at the height of the pandemic, when people needed churches the most, there was nowhere to go and nothing to see. It was a test. We failed it.
When my friend from Scotland
arrived, I greeted him with a pair of scissors and said, “Now you’re here, you can cut my hair off.” It was a baking hot day and I’d had enough. We did it in the garden. Chris cut off enough hair to stuff a mattress, saving me the 50-odd quid I would have spent at Toni & Guy.
The lockdown hasn’t been all bad. I’m far more self-sufficient than I ever was before; I’ve learnt to cook, I even – get this – fixed my own washing machine, drained the drum and cleared the filter (£100 saved?). I guess I’ve discovered the value of thrift, the least fashionable virtue of all. It gets confused with meanness, but meanness is miserable whereas thrift, like all virtues, is about joy – taking joy in what you’ve got and making the most of it. “Make do and mend”.
Unfortunately, in a consumerist society, this virtue is a vice because capitalism needs us to spend. Hence the Government, having shut down and nearly destroyed the restaurants, is now bribing us with our own tax money to eat in them.
To thank Chris for cutting my hair – and, yes, he helped with the washing machine, a bit – I took him to a pub, the first time since they reopened. We were greeted by a boy in a mask who demanded to know our names and phone numbers, and then we sat outside – on a suddenly cold night – and nursed a pint. “I wonder,” I said, “if I could brew my own beer...”