Skip to main content

Life in a time of Covid-19 - part 1: a rant against idiots



It feels like we are stuck in the opening credits of a disaster movie. But this is a cinema we cannot leave. And there are too many directors trying to tell us - the extras - what to do. So we stop listening and follow each other. And as the cameras roll, the dystopian world of the film descends into chaos and panic. The problem is this film is real.

So what are our options?

Well, it appears that a lot of people have selected option 1. The panic option. The option driven by an escalating drip drip of confused and contradicting information. The rabbit hole we hurtle down in a frenzy of wide-eyed suffocating fear as we search and search and search for information on the internet; read terrifying tweets and skip the too doom-laden headlines that we see, but are too scared to open.

Some have selected option 2. The it-won't-happen-to-me option. The we-suddenly-find-ourselves-on-a-paid-and-mortgage-free-holiday option. The scientists-are-jargon-spouting-nerds option. The irresponsible, arrogant and frankly idiotic option. Don't they, like the rest of us, have family? They have parents, children, and elderly relatives. Don't they care about them?
Even if they don't have family, there's the old man in the corner shop who sells them a paper and fags; the cashier who shrugs as she scans a dwindling stream of loo rolls and has an elderly mother with a heart condition living with her at home; the sports coach who has diabetes; the bus driver with asthma - all these individuals and hundreds of others, who interact every day with the it-won't-happen-to-me, non-self-isolating, cov-idiot group.

Idiot - definition: a stupid person. Origin ... now this is a paradox - idiot is from the Greek word idios which means a private person; a person who lives on their own - someone who doesn't engage with society. From that withdrawn behaviour, the idios character was considered to be of lower intelligence; less interesting; and of insignificant opinion. The sort of person clever people - or those who considered themselves to be clever - looked down their noses at. Over time, idios extended its meaning to be of simple mind ie. to be an idiot. In the past, idiots were those poor souls that were locked up in asylums. Now, idiot is derogatory and is used to label a person behaving in a stupid fashion. The idiot driver who overtakes on a narrow road; the idiot who walks behind a reversing car; the idiot who goes to a party when the government advises social isolation. But if you were to splice meaning and origin together you'd get the idiot out partying endangering the idiot who stays at home. Or perhaps not ...

So after a long gap why am I writing a blog now. Why not? Walking the dog is a place for me to rant and dream and lose myself and oh boy! do I need to do all of those now. So, please, please, please  don't select option 2. And try to avoid option 1.

Instead, lets forge an option 3. It won't be easy. It will be lonely. We are social animals. Self-isolating will be hard. But if I promise to post here every day, I hope someone out there will join me and read my words and chat.

Undoubtedly, most of us will get through this. The world may look different next year but people and their brilliant and funny and inspiring and creative ideas will still be here. Join me for some mindfulness; some pictures of my boys; some gardening tips; life stories and wild procrastination-rambles ... otherwise, known as procrasti-rambles.

See you tomorrow ... now that I can sleep knowing that the idiots - as of 8.30pm this evening - will be at home and not playing a reckless game with the lives of others.


 






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here -  in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast.  Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!