January 6

This third Lockdown has given rise to a continuing debate between “The Writer” and me as to which of us is being the more careful. He regards any advancing stranger in the street as a potential killing machine. If they are wearing a mask, he is content with stepping off the pavement into the road to pass them. If not, on spotting them in the distance, he gives vent to a muttered diatribe about why they are so inconsiderate, selfish, malign and stupid, before crossing the road to walk on the opposite pavement. If they dare to jog towards us in the park, first he repeats the diatribe but with “stupid”higher up the list of transgressions, then, standing stock still ,he faces away from the offending path the jogger is pounding, as though to admire the view and makes sure to give the air plenty of time to clear before setting off again.

Yesterday, two cyclists on a completely empty road fully ten metres away from us had the temerity to hold a shouted conversation with each other, only to be accused ,not to them but to me, of “filling the air” with virus.

While other passers-by smile fondly at little children clustering cutely in the park, “The Writer” steps through them as though picking his way through vermin.

Once more, going out for a walk is a complex operation. He opens our front door wearing one plastic glove, which he also uses to press the lift button – both of us masked during the descent, in case someone has only seconds ago vacated the lift. He retains the glove to open the front door of the building then dumps it in the nearest bin and sanitises his hands. Considering myself the guardian of logic, I wonder why he can’t just take off the glove without touching the outside of it, thereby having no need of spray. He moves his mask up and down as he perceives approaching threat, often touching the outside of it with his hands in the process, mine hangs from a mask holder with clips either side and I imagine it to be crawling with virus so only ever touch the clips when taking it on and off.

My logic deserts me however, when we get home. If the mask is crawling with virus, surely our outdoor clothes must be the same, yet I cheerfully take off my coat and hang it on the hook in the hall.

Since March, we have been sanitising incoming parcels , food containers – and even food. I don’t think I will recognise the taste of an apple minus the delicate flavour of 70% alcohol. Letters are left where they land by the front door, to be opened only after a suitable time has passed for the virus to have died away – though we have never decided how long is a suitable time. Now, though, I have started to kick the post around a bit as it lies on the floor to try and work out who the letters are from – just in case one of them is our invitation to get vaccinated and we miss the appointment through not having opened it in time.

I can barely believe that this envelope, when it arrives, will be our passport out of this madness: we will be flinging open doors heedlessly and ungloved, grinning happily at joggers, gazing benignly at toddlers, actually choosing what we want in a shop instead of receiving something that looked fine in the picture but whose use-by date is tomorrow and is anyway a substitute for what we actually wanted – and that’s before we even start thinking of getting away to some sunshine.

Roll on the Rollout.