Surrounded by people who are either vaccinated or desperate to be so, it’s strange to bump into refuseniks. They aren’t concerned about the remote risks of AstraZeneca but implacably opposed. A guy who worked on our house, overweight and in his late 50s, tells me with airy fatalism: “I’m not going to bother. I mean, I could fall off the scaffolding tomorrow.”
The young sports masseuse says she wants more research on which vaccine is best for black people: “maybe we need a special one”. Her mother hasn’t had the jab. I spend my whole appointment trying to persuade her but she’s adamant. She’s read things. Even though my injured muscle keeps me awake I don’t book another massage.
An old friend sends me a random article from some contrarian site about how vaccines are all a con. I reply with a rebuttal from a reputable source. Then I wonder at how easily smart people, after too much time alone, can slip beyond reason.
Friendships have invisible weaknesses: you don’t see the cracks until pressure is applied. I used to tolerate the anti-MMR parents, the alternative therapy folk, the “MSM is fake news” brigade as quirky, maddening but essentially benign. But after this year, I can’t abide these selfish, smug, I-know-better charlatans. Just get the goddamn jab.
Online feline
Across the room, I can see my husband scrolling through an endless stream of photographs. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Is he . . . on Tinder? It turns out he is looking at cats. He’d planned to get one for my birthday but it was much harder than he’d imagined.
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“You’re bound to have strong opinions on the colour. Plus there’s all these breeds. This one’s pretty,” he shows me an exotic, leopard-spotted kitten. “But they’re ‘needy’ apparently. What’s the point in a needy cat? You might as well get a dog.”
I’m not sure I want a fancy cat. Our neighbours have an Oriental shorthair with satellite dish ears, which looks like an Egyptian hieroglyph and is so precious it lives indoors. I just want a large, handsome, aggressive mouser, self-reliant yet friendly, happy to venture outside so I don’t have to deal with a litter tray. (Basically our old cat, RIP.) So why is there no way of connecting cats with their most suitable prospective owners? Please invent Cat Tinder quick.
New me resolutions
To celebrate heady freedoms like being allowed in a shop from April 12, I’ll end my worst lockdown habits. From that date I will no longer:
• Drink wine every night, usually with a bowl of nibbles (because honestly, what else marks the end of another identical day?).
• Procrastinate about everything from cancelling a standing order to finishing a book, because an odd mix of restlessness and lassitude stops me from focusing on any one task.
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• Remain in workout gear until it’s time to change into pyjamas.
• Believe that there’s a meal about 5pm called Cheese Time.
Need for speed
Lately if someone suggests a film or TV series, I first ask “is it ‘heart-warming’?” If so, forget it. My heart doesn’t need warming. My heart, like yours probably, has had quite a torrid time. My heart wants a night off. My heart doesn’t want to see long-lost fathers, sad children, emotional reconciliations, people having “learnings” or spurting hot tears whether of sorrow or joy.
Adventure is what I crave, the more extreme the better. A friend is reading a book about the Nazi occupation of France because it puts our merely miserable time into perspective. Continuing my Mitford obsession, I’ve been listening to Take Six Girls by Laura Thompson on audiobook, enjoying long passages about Mosley’s blackshirts and upper class infatuation with Hitler. Bracing stuff. Although the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks was rewatching Speed, a film I disliked when it came out. Now I think, at least I’m not Sandra Bullock driving a bus that might blow up. In the event of another lockdown, I shall just watch Formula One.
