Social distancing – and other conversations

07 Aug Social distancing – and other conversations

In the past, conversations over dinner with friends often had a certain pattern. As the odd bit of anatomy ceased to function as it once did or someone you haven’t seen for a long time was reported to be ailing or losing the plot, the conversations often began with a catch up on personal ‘conditions’ and then moved onto the mortality rate among mutual friends. Euphemistically described as the ‘organ recital’ this element of social discourse has been notably absent of late. I imagine it’s partly because many of my privileged generation and class are actually feeling rather well right now. Nothing like the absence of company, travel and the stress of being too busy to make a person physically healthier than they’ve been since just before the onset of middle age. Emotional health, of course, is quite a different matter – there are ups and there are downs. The ups can be calm; the downs can be deep. But, undoubtedly, hiding from COVID-19 seems to be having the added benefit of protecting us from all the other germs that accumulate even in summer in trains, buses, cinemas and restaurants. Or that we catch from the grandchildren. Such a sad state of affairs. 

On top of that, we’re all steering clear of doctors and hospitals, putting our existing ailments to one side as far as we can and carrying on ignorant of anything as yet undiagnosed. A diagnosis can be a mixed blessing, another thing to worry about. Not going near a doctor can have a stabilising effect on the emotions – but I’m not recommending it, of course. It’s not the case for everyone. I pause to remember those sheltering some heightened anxiety and yearning for/dreading a face-to-face with their GP.

And, of course, the other obvious reason is that we’ve not been going out much. However, a little more social intercourse has been happening of late. Mainly in gardens or, if it’s raining, perched by an open door in a conservatory, socially distanced but remaining, hopefully, just within earshot of one’s hosts. Based on a relatively small sample and allowing for some exceptions, I’ve found that conversation has switched from organ recitals to other matters. The observation of social behaviour has never been as lively. We are all suddenly behavioural scientists, anthropologists of the lockdown. Stories are shared of runners or cyclists who come too close or don’t give way, of groups walking two, three or four abreast on a path and make no move to fall into single file so that others can pass at a safe distance, of groups of people huddling close together whose faces are scanned suspiciously to search out some family likeness that might justify this level of togetherness. There’s a lot of tutting. We rehearse the statistical evidence in our locality of the masked and the unmasked, attempt to analyse by age (though I often find it difficult to age people behind a mask) and come up with generalisations that juxtapose groups, by class, by race, by gender, most often by generation: ‘the young’ and ‘the old’. I fear that our underlying prejudices are at play alongside our instincts as empiricists. I fear, too, that we may all become very suspicious of one another by and by.

I’ve been trying to work out what all this is about. Because it sometimes feels very banal and small-minded. But, I suppose it’s a way of engaging with the outside world even if it’s in a grumbling sort of way. Perhaps we are a grumbling nation or generation. Perhaps extreme situations bring out the best but also the worst in us. Being cut off as we have been – at least those of us who don’t have to go out to work – seems to have made us hyper-vigilant and quick to criticise when we venture out and about. Somehow, when we’re on edge we look out for the things that add to our unease rather than the things that might reassure. We are sometimes very contrary beings.

On the positive side, the great outdoors has been a joyous reprieve from the early days of lockdown when the levels of infection and fear were much higher and we were reluctant to go out at all. Last week, a fabulous trip to the South Downs to hike with friends. Over a mildly strenuous 7-miler we had everything we could want (well, almost – no mountains and lochs. It’s lovely but it just isn’t Scotland!): a quaint wee village dripping with ‘Ye Olde’ signs; a big sky over the green Downs landscape speckled with chalky-white in close-up and, in long-range, with views far out to sea or inland to fields threaded with crops; a vineyard with vines in rigid rows like troops parading in Red Square on Victory day; slopes spattered with wild flowers – vetch, hedge parsley, poppy, scabious; deep valleys cradling trees where Exmoor ponies were sheltering from the sun and hundreds of tiny blue butterflies were engrossed in a complex formation dance. Then down to join the meandering River Cuckmere and accompany the herons wandering along its banks back to Alfriston.  Conversations about food, music, art, friendship, family and life. Gentle hours in the great outdoors.

Yesterday a walk in my local Bushy Park with a young friend I haven’t seen except on screen since before lockdown. Conversation blending news and ideas, changed futures, whether to grasp at anything or use the time to imagine a different life, how to surf uncertainty. We took a stroll around Heron Pond passing a group of about twenty young people, late teens at a guess. They were seated in a big circle playing music, gathering around some shared food and drink. Happy sounds of summer fun that used to be so familiar. Social distancing? You’re joking. But I didn’t mind. I felt for them, thinking back to my 17-year-old self and how hard I would have found these last few months. At least my immediate future was secure, unlike theirs. I’m glad they’re out enjoying their summer. Why shouldn’t they?