22 The Times MagazineBut was it nothing? Although it often seems
like the past 12 months were an emotional,
social and physical tundra – vast expanses
of frustration, boredom, sadness and ennui,
punctuated by 5pm coronavirus briefings
at which sundry officials basically said, “SO
MANY PEOPLE HAVE DIED TODAY.
So, erm, wash your hands” – in other
ways, March 2020-March 2021 has been
packed. Rammed. Rich with incident. For the
pandemic, and subsequent lockdowns, have
changed nearly everything. There is barely
a facet of our lives that we have not had to
alter, from the smallest (not being able to go
to the pub) to the biggest (not being able to
go to the pub). In that way, we have been busy.
The question is: has it fundamentally changed
who we are? Have we “been on a journey”?
Are we not who we were at the beginning of
this “adventure”?
To find out, let us do what they would do
on Love Island when an orange couple reach
one of their significant anniversaries, such as
“first week together”. Let’s have a montage of
Lockdown’s Most Memorable Bits! What have
we “learnt” in the past year, if anything?1
It has made the first line of work emails
controversial. What to write? How do
you start a mundane work conversation
during a time of global crisis?
Arguments have raged over this on Twitter,
although that’s not saying much, given that
arguments rage on Twitter about whether
Yorkshire Tea is a “Tory drink” or if vegan
sausage rolls are, somehow, if you’re Piers
Morgan, communist.
The debate is this: in times of corona,
should you start a work email with, “I hope
you are well”? Or even widen it out a little, to
encompass the general argh with, “I hope you
are doing OK in these unusual times”?
Why is this controversial? Oh God, I can’t
remember. Hang on, I’m going to google it.
Ah, right – it was deemed, by some, to be
“too insincere”. Some rando work drone
you’ve never met doesn’t really care if you’vegot the virus. Not really. They’re not ready to
handle you replying with, “Actually, Jan, I’m
glad you asked, because I’m not well. I’ve got
like these spasms all up my hamstrings. I’m
coughing so hard it feels like I’m eating my
own lungs like a mad, late lunch and toilet-
wise, words fail me (I’ve attached a JPEG of
this morning’s disaster).”
Similarly, in the event of, “I hope you’re
OK in these unusual times,” Jan is equally
unwilling to receive a reply that encompasses
the phrases, “I’m out of work and so broke
I’m down to the bones in my arse, Jan,” or,
“Jan, I’m existentially tits-up and floating in
a bile-green sea of despair,” and, “Jan! Jan!
Jan! Jan! Come to my house now – it is an
emergency! If I don’t answer the doorbell,
smash your way in through the cat flap and,
when you find me, just hold me close and
whisper, ‘Darling, it’s OK. Jan from Sanderson
Blinds is here with that final quote for that
24 x 24in Velux in the loft.’ ”
The thing is, Jan’s just being polite. And
we know this. Come on, we’re British. Ninety-
nine per cent of what we say is just “being
polite”. No one ever means “fabulous to meet
you” or “let’s speak again soon” or “I love this”.
Saying, “I hope you’re well,” is just being polite.
It’s just the automatic word vinegar we put on
the chips of the actual email. Emails have
always started, meaninglessly yet formulaically,
with “I hope you’re well”. Suddenly to stop
saying this in the middle of a global health crisis
would be, frankly, contrary to the point of
rudeness. This is something we have absolutely
overthought. If you’re really, truly getting angry
about the custom of beginning an email with a
polite murmur, then I would suggest that the
truthful answer to Jan’s “hope you’re well” is
“Jan, I’m not. I’m spiritually unwell. Like Ron
Burgundy, I’m trapped in a glass booth of
emotion, and I don’t know how to get out.”2
Sex is extincting. The most recent
survey has estimated that “sexual
frequency” has dropped by 30 per cent
during lockdown. That’s a frankly dementedfigure I would strongly contest. I suspect that
there has been so little sex during lockdown
that people have now reclassified things
such as “a nice bath” and “eating a chocolate
mousse” as “sex”, which has artificially
bumped up the stats.
There’s no way 70 per cent of people are
still as fruity as they were in days of norm.
No way. Lockdown has been like a massive
chastity belt snapped around the world’s
groin. Whatever your situation – single, dating,
cohabiting, married – 2020 was profoundly
non-genital. That area has basically ceased
to exist. If, through a series of bizarre
circumstances, our bodies exploded into their
constituent parts and we had to pick up all the
pieces and rebuild ourselves in a hurry, you’d
get to the bit where you found your dingle or
grendal under a table, shrug, say, “Given how
much I’m using it, it’s not worth the backache
of bending over to pick it up,” and then kick it
under the sink, next to the dog’s mucky tennis
ball. Sex, like going to the gym or getting your
nails done, has become a non-essential
activity. And this is across the board.
After all, for much of last year, it was illegal
even to hug people you don’t live with. Sex
for the single, and non-cohabiting, turned into
some manner of borderline impossible germ
crime, which involved serious conversations
about how much you could legally and safely
do through a letterbox.
For those who are cohabiting, meanwhile,
things are scarcely easier. Home schooling,
children returning from university and old/
vulnerable relatives deciding to move in and
“bubble” with you has meant that most
married couples have felt a bit “panda-ish”.
You know how pandas are so endangered
that their sex lives are constantly monitored
by zookeepers and scientists? And the pandas
seem to be “made shy” by this and refuse to
procreate? Like that. To be brisk: in every
locked-down house and apartment in the
world, there is nowhere safe and private to have
sex. Because there are people everywhere,
24 hours a day. They never leave. They’reHappy anniversary, everyone! We’ve been cohabiting with Covid-19
for a year now, which makes this month our paper anniversary. I’ve beenblue-skying appropriately themed gift ideas for us to give to the virus, to mark
the occasion. Maybe a piece of paper with the words, “YOU CAN ACTUALLYJUST F*** OFF NOW,” written on it in a demented scrawl, or perhaps we
could just fling our empty 2020 calendars into its stupid viral face whileshouting, “LOOK! IT’S ALL BLANK! I DID NOTHING! THANKS TO YOU!”
ROBERT WILSON