Prologue
India . Feb 2020
Kerala. Bathed in glorious Indian sunshine.
I have escaped the grey English winter to bask in the warmth, drink in the vivid smells and sounds, taste the eclectic heady South Indian street food. Three blissful weeks drift past.
A cloud creeps across the horizon.
That "so far away in China as to not bother us, the one named after a beer 😃" killer virus from China has begun its slow inexorable creep across the globe.
Kerala announces 3 cases and within a day a state emergency is declared.
As I sit on the golden sands to watch the glorious setting sun, fishing boats silhouetted in the hazy ribbon marking waves from darkening sky, my usual evening meditation is impossible, my thoughts are awash with confusion.
Is this 'state disaster ' proclamation an overreaction?
Is it a means of crowd control, measures by a Government keen to quell the ever increasing riots against the unpopular citizen ship bill which are spreading across the country even down to the peaceful South?
Or is this a real danger to myself and to those I love ?
All my instincts tell me to go home. I have never had this overwhelming sensation before, even when many solo backpacking adventures across strange lands have left me terrified and often homesick. This deep primeval voice urging me to head home now, earlier than planned, is unique and simply cannot be ignored.
Three days later I am on a hastily rearranged flight home. It is a surreal, bizarre journey. Reality has suddenly blended into science fiction.
First there s the masks. Everyone is wearing masks.I am handed a box and cannot go into the airport without putting one on. It muffles sound , it makes it hard to breath. I feel claustrophobic and disproportionately lonely.
My luggage is disinfected. My temperature is screened. The flight is early and half empty as tourism into Kerala has been stopped.
I move lethargically through my transit in Kuwait in a sea of ghostly gloved and masked figures.
Another empty and disconcertingly quiet flight. Crew cannot remove their masks so even a routine question is impossible. This is the strangest trip I have ever taken but at this point I think it marks the end of a journey, not the beginning.
Heathrow is a sea of normality. Not a face mask in sight, not a screening booth, not a temperature test. I breath a sigh of relief.
I am home, safe, reunited with loved one and back to normality in a world the right way up.
Only now with hindsight can I see that this was just the first step on a long dark road into the unknown.
Now our country too has slipped into a world turned upside down.
Minus week 1
Mid March.
A few blissfully stress free weeks with my family and friends.
Play dates and a happy birthday party with my granddaughters.
I plan ahead, booking tickets for the theatre, an exhibition, weekends away...
Rambling in the glorious South Downs surrounding my home I breath in that fresh country air and relish my contentment.
But all the while that now not so far away killer virus edges closer and closer. It arrives in Europe; we watch with horror the mounting death toll in Italy and increasingly in Spain. Donald Trump tells America it is nothing to worry about.
Early March and inevitably news emerges of cases here in England. There is confusion as to what to do. Advice, often conflicting, floods the airwaves. Pubs, shops and cafes remain open. Young people are outspokenly blase as we are told that the most vulnerable group are over 70, although many of us , myself included, are in high risk groups.
Panic buying commences with a vengeance. Bizarrely, toilet rolls become the first item to disappear. Pasta, baked beans, jam, biscuits, wine and beer vanish from the shelves with disconcerting speed. No one is immune as, faced with present and future shortages, everyone instinctively errs on the side of caution.
The Government adopts a daily press briefing which we watch in bemusement. Each day brings more advice but no real instruction.
International companies begin to shut their doors, asking staff such as my husband to work from home to keep everyone safe. This is not so easy for small businesses, retail, tradesman, entertainment, food and drink and the stock market plummets, amidst dire economic forecasts.
As a lifelong asthmatic dependant on steroid inhalers and now in my sixtieth decade, I take to avoiding coffee mornings, walking groups, gyms, even going shopping. I adopt the recommended social distancing in my solo walks . Fortunately we are blessed with mild spring weather. The country is in limbo.
D Day arrives with the announcement from Prime Minister Boris Johnson on March 20th to instruct pubs, restaurants, theatres, cinemas gyms and leisure centres to close from Friday night.
The Government introduces emergency financial measures to pay 80% of wages for employees thrown out of work overnight by this measure, although admitting though it would take time for this to be available.
This has been my 'minus' week 1. A week of waiting and watching whilst our nation individually and collectively comes to terms with this ghastly epidemic which has tipped our world upside down. From now on we are all travelling together into a dark tunnel with no end in sight.
Week 1
And so it begins. Sunday March 23 rd , Mothers Day , Boris Johnson makes a special broadcast to the nation. We must do as we are told. Stay at home, unless for essential travel for shopping or medical needs. Exercise once a day is permitted. 1.5 million vulnerable people are told to self isolate completely. We are now officially a nation in a state of emergency.
This Mothers Day is unique. I see none of my children or my grandchildren and would have felt totally bereft but for the joys of modern technology. Ultimately it was unexpectedly special. I did see them all, albeit via video calling. Cards arrived alongside gifts and a bunch of flowers left outside (no contact drop off) by my daughter.
Despite everything I felt loved and I felt blessed. It helps me fight off increasing despair at the thought of the weeks ahead filled with loneliness and isolation.
I know I am one of the lucky ones in not having immediate economic woes. Although I am 'at risk' I am still allowed to exercise outside once a day as long as I practice social distancing.
In practise, this has already proved to be easier said than done as far too often either people cannot work out how far away 2 metres is or simply do not care enough to leave a wide berth. Nevertheless, I can go out and outside is infinitely better than inside for my sanity.
This first week is chaotic. Business fold in their droves, forced to shut their doors overnight. Crowds ignore the 'non essential travel' rule to drive to the coast and to local beauty spots en masse to enjoy the spring sunshine, prompting outrage from politicians and public alike. 'This is not a holiday' becomes an angry catchphrase echoing across a society in crisis.
We are not prepared, any of us, for this. We are stripped of contact from any loved ones outside our immediate household. We are stripped of our work colleagues and our friends. Many people lose their jobs, their identity, overnight. The steeply climbing death toll haunts us daily as we all try to cope with lives reduced to a pale shadow of our former
This is just the beginning of our journey along a road never yet travelled. A dark windy road with no known destination. A bumpy road with no signposts and no maps. As we take our first ill equipped faltering steps out along this path we take only hope that the way ahead will lead us out eventually back out into the sunlight.
India . Feb 2020
Kerala. Bathed in glorious Indian sunshine.
I have escaped the grey English winter to bask in the warmth, drink in the vivid smells and sounds, taste the eclectic heady South Indian street food. Three blissful weeks drift past.
A cloud creeps across the horizon.
That "so far away in China as to not bother us, the one named after a beer 😃" killer virus from China has begun its slow inexorable creep across the globe.
Kerala announces 3 cases and within a day a state emergency is declared.
As I sit on the golden sands to watch the glorious setting sun, fishing boats silhouetted in the hazy ribbon marking waves from darkening sky, my usual evening meditation is impossible, my thoughts are awash with confusion.
Is this 'state disaster ' proclamation an overreaction?
Is it a means of crowd control, measures by a Government keen to quell the ever increasing riots against the unpopular citizen ship bill which are spreading across the country even down to the peaceful South?
Or is this a real danger to myself and to those I love ?
All my instincts tell me to go home. I have never had this overwhelming sensation before, even when many solo backpacking adventures across strange lands have left me terrified and often homesick. This deep primeval voice urging me to head home now, earlier than planned, is unique and simply cannot be ignored.
Three days later I am on a hastily rearranged flight home. It is a surreal, bizarre journey. Reality has suddenly blended into science fiction.
First there s the masks. Everyone is wearing masks.I am handed a box and cannot go into the airport without putting one on. It muffles sound , it makes it hard to breath. I feel claustrophobic and disproportionately lonely.
My luggage is disinfected. My temperature is screened. The flight is early and half empty as tourism into Kerala has been stopped.
I move lethargically through my transit in Kuwait in a sea of ghostly gloved and masked figures.
Another empty and disconcertingly quiet flight. Crew cannot remove their masks so even a routine question is impossible. This is the strangest trip I have ever taken but at this point I think it marks the end of a journey, not the beginning.
Heathrow is a sea of normality. Not a face mask in sight, not a screening booth, not a temperature test. I breath a sigh of relief.
I am home, safe, reunited with loved one and back to normality in a world the right way up.
Only now with hindsight can I see that this was just the first step on a long dark road into the unknown.
Now our country too has slipped into a world turned upside down.
Minus week 1
Mid March.
A few blissfully stress free weeks with my family and friends.
Play dates and a happy birthday party with my granddaughters.
I plan ahead, booking tickets for the theatre, an exhibition, weekends away...
Rambling in the glorious South Downs surrounding my home I breath in that fresh country air and relish my contentment.
But all the while that now not so far away killer virus edges closer and closer. It arrives in Europe; we watch with horror the mounting death toll in Italy and increasingly in Spain. Donald Trump tells America it is nothing to worry about.
Early March and inevitably news emerges of cases here in England. There is confusion as to what to do. Advice, often conflicting, floods the airwaves. Pubs, shops and cafes remain open. Young people are outspokenly blase as we are told that the most vulnerable group are over 70, although many of us , myself included, are in high risk groups.
Panic buying commences with a vengeance. Bizarrely, toilet rolls become the first item to disappear. Pasta, baked beans, jam, biscuits, wine and beer vanish from the shelves with disconcerting speed. No one is immune as, faced with present and future shortages, everyone instinctively errs on the side of caution.
The Government adopts a daily press briefing which we watch in bemusement. Each day brings more advice but no real instruction.
International companies begin to shut their doors, asking staff such as my husband to work from home to keep everyone safe. This is not so easy for small businesses, retail, tradesman, entertainment, food and drink and the stock market plummets, amidst dire economic forecasts.
As a lifelong asthmatic dependant on steroid inhalers and now in my sixtieth decade, I take to avoiding coffee mornings, walking groups, gyms, even going shopping. I adopt the recommended social distancing in my solo walks . Fortunately we are blessed with mild spring weather. The country is in limbo.
D Day arrives with the announcement from Prime Minister Boris Johnson on March 20th to instruct pubs, restaurants, theatres, cinemas gyms and leisure centres to close from Friday night.
The Government introduces emergency financial measures to pay 80% of wages for employees thrown out of work overnight by this measure, although admitting though it would take time for this to be available.
This has been my 'minus' week 1. A week of waiting and watching whilst our nation individually and collectively comes to terms with this ghastly epidemic which has tipped our world upside down. From now on we are all travelling together into a dark tunnel with no end in sight.
Week 1
And so it begins. Sunday March 23 rd , Mothers Day , Boris Johnson makes a special broadcast to the nation. We must do as we are told. Stay at home, unless for essential travel for shopping or medical needs. Exercise once a day is permitted. 1.5 million vulnerable people are told to self isolate completely. We are now officially a nation in a state of emergency.
This Mothers Day is unique. I see none of my children or my grandchildren and would have felt totally bereft but for the joys of modern technology. Ultimately it was unexpectedly special. I did see them all, albeit via video calling. Cards arrived alongside gifts and a bunch of flowers left outside (no contact drop off) by my daughter.
Despite everything I felt loved and I felt blessed. It helps me fight off increasing despair at the thought of the weeks ahead filled with loneliness and isolation.
I know I am one of the lucky ones in not having immediate economic woes. Although I am 'at risk' I am still allowed to exercise outside once a day as long as I practice social distancing.
In practise, this has already proved to be easier said than done as far too often either people cannot work out how far away 2 metres is or simply do not care enough to leave a wide berth. Nevertheless, I can go out and outside is infinitely better than inside for my sanity.
This first week is chaotic. Business fold in their droves, forced to shut their doors overnight. Crowds ignore the 'non essential travel' rule to drive to the coast and to local beauty spots en masse to enjoy the spring sunshine, prompting outrage from politicians and public alike. 'This is not a holiday' becomes an angry catchphrase echoing across a society in crisis.
We are not prepared, any of us, for this. We are stripped of contact from any loved ones outside our immediate household. We are stripped of our work colleagues and our friends. Many people lose their jobs, their identity, overnight. The steeply climbing death toll haunts us daily as we all try to cope with lives reduced to a pale shadow of our former
This is just the beginning of our journey along a road never yet travelled. A dark windy road with no known destination. A bumpy road with no signposts and no maps. As we take our first ill equipped faltering steps out along this path we take only hope that the way ahead will lead us out eventually back out into the sunlight.
A good summary to date of what is happening. Despite other countries becoming affected before the UK we were all surprised when it began to affect us personally. For me the huge nation wide decision to close school was the biggest shock and I worry about the impact this will have on a whole generation who currently look like they will loose 6 months of learning.
ReplyDeleteReally good, Edwina, especially relating the trip home from India and that temporary feeling of safety. Regarding dates, on 16 March we were advised not to go to bars and restaurants, but they weren’t yet closed. But as you say, they closed at the end of the week. It was on Monday 23 we were ordered to stay home because so many people had ignored advice and gone out to enjoy Mother’s Day. Looking forward to reading more!
ReplyDeleteTechnology could the saving grace in terms of keeping in touch with friends and family. Our group of ladies, who would normally meet in the pub every Thursday evening, has taken to a Zoom meeting, each with wine glass in hand and able to see each other and chat about what we've been doing, how our children are getting on, so much the same as a normal pub evening. It doesn't last as long as the pub sessions would, clearly a reflection of the slightly difficult medium, but nonetheless a very welcome 'get-together'.
ReplyDelete