During lockdown one, which began almost a year ago, I started counting the days. Day 1 of lockdown quickly turned into Day 10. Then Day 30. And so on. It seemed to be a never ending count. At times, I wondered if I should be scratching lines into a wall somewhere, to make sure I kept up with what was going on. And on. And on.
But I’ve always felt that the word lockdown was a bit of a stretch. We’ve never really had a proper lockdown in the UK. We’ve had a series of restrictions, with varying levels of severity. And these restrictions have always seen varying levels of adherence with regard to mixing of households. Adherence has sometimes been good. And sometimes not, particularly these last few weeks.
It’s not hard to find a lockdown critic wailing in one Twitter conversation at the inhumanity of their being separated from friends and relatives. And five minutes later, in another conversation, freely admitting to have never obeyed the law anyway. Our walk along the beachfront yesterday confirmed countless accounts from around the country – households are openly mingling.
But I find I am no longer counting the days gone by. I’m counting down the days till the layers of restrictions are peeled back, one by one. I’m counting down the days till I get my jab. We’re almost there. Hopefully. Just a little further, and the promised land will come into view. Everything will get better. Except for face mask manufacturers. They’re screwed.