When our [insert adjective of your choice here] Prime Minister last year kind of suggested that Covid was like fighting a war, we mostly felt he was wrong. Because a virus is not like a human being with a gun. The ‘fight’ is not the same. But he wanted to be Churchill, leading his people to victory, while forgetting that this would mean actually leading, which is a job.
So for me to write about war on this Bank Holiday Monday, is not the most cheerful of things. But more than once I have been gripped by a sense of déjà vu, how war-like Covid actually is. After all.
It started when I read Eva Ibbotson’s The Morning Gift after Christmas. Set largely in 1938 and 1939 we know the whole time what is coming. So do they. The war, I mean, not how many years it would take out of their lives, or who would be victorious, or if they would even be alive at the end. [SPOILER] Most of the main characters are still there in 1945. But they have had to put their normal lives on hold.
When your husband’s away fighting, your hopes for a baby will have to take a back seat. Maybe there won’t/can’t be a baby after, perhaps because he didn’t come back, or because you perished in a bomb raid. Or something more sedate. Six years seem short seen from a distance, and when you know the outcome. But back then, you couldn’t just say you’d had enough and you would jolly well enjoy life as though there wasn’t a war on. Just because you want to, or feel you need to.
A similar thought appears in a book I will review later this week, where the young man in the Navy in 1943 thinks that surely by next Christmas he will be able to spend it at home, with his mother. Not an unreasonable thing to wish for at all. He’s already had a long wait for normality, and really wants for there to be no more fighting or being in danger, or living away from those who matter most. Still not a case of ‘I want it so I will have it.’
Almost fourteen months into the pandemic (longer if you count the true beginning, ignored by the PM), we are all fed up. We’ve had enough. It’s ‘unreasonable’ that we should have to put whatever it is we wish for on hold for even longer. But it’s interesting how the predicted three weeks of lockdown appeared to be such a very long period when we went into it last March, and how – relatively – quick it’s been, fourteen months on.
We’re tired. Maybe unwell. Many have died. Jobs have been lost and society is not the same as before. People have had to wait to do a great many things. Perhaps they are still waiting. Some want to go to Ibiza so badly they can’t wait. Or just to the pub. Maybe you want to go and see someone important to you, a long way away. Perhaps you have the wrong passport. If you have a passport.
I’d like to go to my other place. Technically I am allowed to. I mean, I would be allowed in. But not everyone in the Bookwitch family would be. So I wouldn’t go for fun. Not even to see if the house is still standing. It’s the people I miss. I’m in no hurry. Now that it’s been this long, I will just wait some more. The most surprising thing has been that it’s so hard to read. Or to watch anything at all worthy. But puppies on the small screen are a good distraction.