It's a Dog-Eat-Dog World

Bo & Co are dropping like flies, as Britain’s politicians prove utterly incapable of following their own foolproof advice. Coronavirus claustrophobia clearly was too much for chief culprit Catherine Calderwood to bear, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t understand the temptation; after two weeks trapped in lockdown, I am being eerily reminded of the nightmare that is our annual family camping “holiday” to France, where it rains 24/7 and the six of us spend the fortnight under 4m² of canvas, with only a 1000-piece puzzle for entertainment. Except this is worse, as there is no end in sight and my brother completed said puzzle on Day One of this social experiment.

Boris’s admission to intensive care has us all concerned, and not least Dominic Raab, who found himself immediately thrust into the hot seat, hounded by political journalists questioning whether the government still had the situation under control. The way in which the Secretary of State stammered “Yes” whilst simultaneously shaking his head didn’t exactly inspire me with confidence. I have more faith in myself caving into pressure and agreeing to a second 10km family fun run this week. And that’s saying something. The sooner bumbling Boris and his oozing optimism bound back the better.

Back at home, a middle-aged women’s WhatsApp group is the source of all pandemic paranoia, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother emerged from her wardrobe tomorrow sporting 2020’s latest catwalk trend: the hazmat suit. Armed with face mask and sanitizer spray, she’s now taken to leaving for the supermarket at 5 o’clock in the morning. A nocturnal lifestyle is apparently the price you have to pay in order for there still to be pasta on the shelves. Tesco’s restrictions are tightening, and my mother’s classic chilli con carne can now more aptly be described as chilli sans carne, due to a distinct lack of vital ingredients. A family of six lives in a dog-eat-dog world, however, and my 17-year-old brother has clearly decided that this rationing malarkey is not for him; my mother was appalled to discover the other evening that he had spontaneously decided to demolish an entire loaf of bread in one sitting, leaving nothing but the crust for our supper. Under any other circumstances, I might have been mildly impressed. They say lockdown brings out the best in us, but it’s evidently all for one, and not so much one for all, when it comes to the household at No. 9.

My monster of a brother is thankfully an exception, however, as the weekly Clap for Carers proves to be the epitome of community spirit. The second salute for the NHS saw our street unite with a cacophony of pots and pans - ironically the most contact we’ve had with our next-door neighbour since my father ran over her cat back in 2007. Tales of neighbourly goodwill will please my grandma, who’s becoming increasingly convinced that Covid-19 is God’s way of punishing us for our sins in a 21st Century version of Genesis’ Great Flood. I can only hope that this time Noah has remembered to install some lifeboats on what is seemingly an already-sinking ship.

For those of you waiting for an update on my 19-year-old sister’s increasingly feral way of life, I can report that she is now making a concerted effort to re-wear her socks – apparently the only solution to the emergent issue of my mother stealing them. My mother likes to remind my sister that perhaps fewer socks would mysteriously disappear if she made the effort to emerge from her vegetative state once a day to put away the laundry herself. To be fair on my sister, however, she’s not the only one who’s decided to take a walk on the wild side; my friend was greeted 40 minutes late on Facetime this week by her university professor who not only had overslept, but had determined it was somehow appropriate to video call from the comfort of her duvet. I guess if anything’s going to bring about the peak on Chris Whitty’s Covid curve, it’s the laziness of your average Brit. Keep calm and do f**k all.

On the flip side of the coin, standards seem to be higher at my brothers’ new virtual school; full suit and tie remains the expectation across the curriculum, from computerised chapel services to modernised music lessons. Routine is underrated, yet I can’t help but be sceptical of the extent to which a pair of cufflinks will improve the hullabaloo that is my brother playing the drums downstairs. As for me, the prospect of Skype sessions with my technologically inept university professors isn’t exactly filling me with excitement. I should get back to practising the art of Where’s My Wifi?: Covid-19’s take on the children’s party classic, Musical Statues, where you pretend your computer screen has frozen each time you’re posed a question you’d rather not attempt. Stay home, and stay safe everyone.

Charlotte x