“Print layout or web layout?”
I’m sat in the middle of the biggest crisis since World War Two, and my biggest concern is whether anyone will be reading this on A4. Meanwhile we are trading our phones (ok, I mean grandmas. It’s not that serious) for bog roll. And hand sanitiser. When was the last time I ever gave a shit about hand sanitiser? I mean, I do indeed give a shit for bog roll, but that’s kind of the point of bog roll. Not sure what purpose it would serve in my bathroom if I became incontinentally indifferent to it.
The shelves are empty. It’s amazing to see what really matters in life. Except, you can’t, because it’s all been taken. There’s something rather symbolic about seeing plenty of cash in your wallet, assuming you’re one of the lucky ones who hasn’t been kicked out the top floor of their Evil Corporation with only a p45 for a parachute, but nothing to buy. It’s rather like the Soviet Union, but (judging by the sales of 2-ply) with everyone pooing more.
Even the little shops are starting to struggle. I passed a toy shop and did wonder whether they, too, were having issues, but then you can’t easily wipe your bum with a Scalextric or barbie’s head.
The world is going crazy, and I’m the only sane person left in it. It’s like I’ve been telling myself for years, in between polishing my tinfoil hats and checking behind my ear for secretly implanted location trackers. Of course, it could all be a test. Israel certainly seems to think so. Listen to the announcements in Jerusalem and you could be forgiven for thinking we were in the middle of some kind of bog roll-devoid rapture.
So we’re all staying at home for now, it seems. There are definitely worse situations. Consider the Blitz for some perspective. Today, we worry about not being able to pay the mortgage; back then, you could come back to a house in lots of little bits. Or not at all, because the bomb had picked you rather than your stately two-up, two-down at 27 Bottomley Avenue (which, being a solid hard-working civilian, you were away from at the time, either busy doing your bit or actually getting shot at). We have broadband, and the guys who manage the internet pipes assure us they’ll be able to cope. Back then, a phone line was as good as it got, and only if your name included the words 'General’, ‘King’ or ‘Winston Churchill’. We have online courses galore and an ocean of sitcoms to gradually get sick of on Netflix, so we’re unlikely to force our two youngest children to act out Eastenders at gunpoint by Day 35.
With that said, life could be better. My wife was looking forward to staying at home for a bit. But it turns out that being a teacher was a mistake. Our frontline guys, including the medical workers, carers, social workers and, presumably, gravediggers, have a lot of kids. Whilst these heroes work a thirty two hour day to fight the good fight, the little ones need support. Those and the most vulnerable, which include the frail, the ones who can’t tell you what day of the week it is and the kid who, during their last tantrum, tried to have your right arm for lunch. This group of kids numbers Not Very Many, but it’s enough to make for an interesting session of Easter-Holiday-Is-Cancelled babysitting, which is what this really is. But consider the childcare alternatives for this lot, which largely involve being tossed into a skip and/or the collapse of future civilisation. This situation isn’t great for anyone, but the teacher’s sacrifice is a necessary one.
It’s silly, it’s tragic, it’s downright scary and it’s peculiar that we don’t seem better prepared for it. But assuming humanity survives having the living snot kicked out of it (complete with fever and a constant cough) while climate change holds us down, we’ll have a story to tell our grandchildren that’s almost as good as the war.