As of last week the country went into lockdown. Yet outside the window of my study here in Somerset, for a few days at least, something like the usual number of cars continued to whizz past, and couples ambled along the pavement chatting merrily with those they encountered along the way. A makeshift sign was posted to a telegraph poll at the roadside which exemplifies the prevalent attitude here. “Holidaymakers not welcome,” it read, as if the deadly virus were something foreign that we would be able to keep out rather than something that is already here, among us.
Those travelling into the area from more densely populated cities do carry a greater risk of bringing the coronavirus with them. But I suspect there is a degree of parochialism and xenophobia to placards like this, as demonstrated by the worrying number of people carrying on as normal: the virus is something they get “down there in London”, as I was told of various phenomena as a child. To paraphrase George Orwell, the pandemic still feels far away, a smudge of misery hidden by the curve of the earth’s surface.
There are of course some who are out and about for the daily supermarket run. Others are no doubt ‘key workers’; while some perform their one piece of exercise a day. It scarcely matters. What matters is that we don’t gather to socialise in public places. Yet through my dusty window I can still see a continual trickle of people — overwhelmingly older people — who appear reluctant to take even basic precautions in the face of this threat.
These are extraordinary times and writing this I feel like a member of the Stasi. According to Anna Funder’s excellent book Stasiland, there was one Stasi officer or informant for every 63 people in the former German Democratic Republic. Including part-time informers, that ratio was high as one informer for every 6.5 East German citizens. I view everyone walking past the window of my study with suspicion. Yet I was rather more disconcerted by the glee with which some police forces appeared to be enforcing the lockdown.
Despite the protestations of professional contrarians and rent-a-gobs — the types who must continually batter themselves against the mainstream in order to define themselves — we are not yet East Germany. Indeed, this is not really a ‘lockdown’ as such: we are still permitted to leave the house and, unlike in much of mainland Europe, we do not have to show papers to anyone in order to do so.
The real test will be in the coming weeks as the death toll rises more rapidly. Just before the lockdown was announced the pubs in the small Somerset town where I’m staying were bristling with life. Drinkers fanned out onto the pavements like a swarm of ants, despite the macabre scenes broadcast from Italy and elsewhere. It wasn’t much-maligned millennials whom I saw expressing such frivolous abandon, but rather many who would be characterised as the so-called ‘war generation’.
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