Howard’s way
As he begins to get used to the idea of self-isolating and life online, Philip Howard wonders when will we meet again? And do we actually need to?
WELL, as the world death toll for COVID-19 surges past 100,000 (I am writing this in early April), it makes my comments in last month’s column – “this all looks like a massive overreaction and at some stage normality will resume” – appear somewhat agly.
Like, I suspect, most of you, I have lost some very special friends to this horrible virus. And when that loss touches you personally you think micro, not macro. My doctor pal from Swindon, however, reminded me that in 2018, 1.5 million people, of whom 200,000 were children, died of tuberculosis. And that is a treatable disease. Possibly this year because of the concentration of the world’s resources on coronavirus that figure will expand, as will deaths from cancers and other diseases. So, whilst I still wonder what the consequences of torching the world’s economy will be, there is no doubt that some positives may emerge in the form of rebalancing lifestyles and creating more equal societies.
Another of the plus points has been the way that communities have come together, and most people have been looking after their family and friends. I recently rang to check up on my friends who run a somewhat alternative B&B on top of a mountain near Shap. You may recall me mentioning them. They were the ones who, unfortunately, contributed to the breakdown of an elderly lady from Cheam who, wandering into the wrong bathroom, was confronted by a dead pig. It was hanging from a wooden clothes dryer, throat cut, above a bath full of blood. The ingredients, as it turned out, for my pal Tom’s homemade black pudding, which, alas, they failed to stay long enough to sample. His wife answered the phone. The background noise was indescribable. God Save The Queen by the Sex Pistols boomed out together with a cacophony of audible obscenities between Tom and his son and various snuffles and yips from their menagerie of pugs.
“God, are you all right?” I asked.
“Not really,” she replied. “Farming is going on much the same. Tom and Harry are swearing at each other, the B&B business has stopped indefinitely, not that there was a great upsurge after The Pig Incident you so kindly mentioned in The Field. Tom has now become a virtual DJ, aka the Funky Farmer, and we are seeing nobody. Mind you, we have been f***ing socially distancing in Cumbria for 22 years. So absolutely no change.”
As it happens, that is simply not true. They are part of an extraordinary family who have all come together as a community, as so many in Cumbria have. One of the covens run a large tearoom. They have adapted it to provide hot and cold food deliveries for family and friends and those who are old and vulnerable in the community. They can only get supplies from a huge wholesaler. That has caused the odd issue. One friend booked in for a bottle of soy sauce. Something the size of a fire extinguisher arrived. Another asked for some manchego cheese. A car wheel appeared. Her kids have been rolling it up and down the farmyard to keep fit.
But will we ever see each other again? Do we need to see each other again when we can live online? I have not seen my daughter, who stayed in Glasgow to finish her exam studies having surrounded herself with books before lockdown. She tells me that universities have opened up all their online libraries. My doctor friends tell me that they are now able to use video technology in a transformative way that, if used properly, will revolutionise the NHS. GPS should be able to devote themselves to dealing with patients who really need a doctor, whilst good practice nurses can create an effective triage system to ensure that patients’ needs are met quickly and efficiently. In the North of England and amongst older patients this would have been culturally unacceptable pre-coronavirus. My son arrived back here on my birthday, needless to say bringing a dose of the plague. But during isolation he announced that he had found a new girlfriend in the fleshpots of Naples – presumably on newbird.net.
COVID-19 seems to have put paid to this year’s shooting. Romeo Ridley has gone to ground. I foresee a virtual shoot this year. Partly it seems this is due to the presence of my southern cousin, Alexander, and his wife, Sophie – or as Romeo refers to the couple, “them from London”. He is paranoid about the virus. Not that it could penetrate his hands. They are normally thickly covered in either digger oil and grease or blood. Or, when clean, my young secretary.
I keep getting calls. “Them from London have been in the woods.” Despite my reassurances that they have been here well over 30 days, that does not cut any mustard. “Them from London have been touching gates and stoops and running.”
So, I asked, what will he do if we end up having any shoots this year? Will he accept tips from ‘Them from London’s’ friends?
“I’ll get one of them card machines so they can tip me contactlessly,” he announced.
“But Andrew,” I said. “I am sure they only work up to £30.”
He frowned. As my agricultural machinery salesman friend, Martyn, muttered, via, I suspect, Confucius, “Life isn’t that complicated, it’s people that make it.”
One friend asked for some manchego cheese. A car wheel appeared. Her kids have been rolling it up and down the farmyard to keep fit