March 2020 I was working in a hospital as Covid-19 took hold of the city. To curb the spread of the virus hospital workers were required to quarantine after work. This meant I couldn’t be within 2 meters of my daughter who was only 6 months old. In the evenings I watched my housemate mummify himself in his bed sheets declaring it was the end of world, not because of the crushing weight of a modern day plague but because the local Tesco had put a two bottle limit on wine.
In the early mornings, I walked the empty streets of Brixton and stood outside houses and took photos, desperate to know what was going on in other people’s lives. What did their nothing look like?
People began working from home, unwanted household items started spilling out on to the streets. Some of it valuable, some of it junk. People started bringing plants into their homes. Gardens were everything. Many were terrified of food shortages so began to bake bread. Communications with the outside world took the form of face montages on electronic screens.
Little did we know lockdown would last for over 12 months with some short breaks in between. Little did we know Covid would go on to kill 8 million people world-wide and lockdowns in various forms would destroy livelihoods and obliterate the mental health of millions. For me there is life before Covid and life after. I never really recovered from the ordeal. It struck at the most intimate place in my psyche – the need to feel close to others.
My theatrical friends were out of work and going stir crazy in west London. One of them used his contacts in the Russian mafia to get me a very early Covid test prototype. The instructions were translated from Mandarin to English so I WhatsApp’d west London for some tips deciphering the garble. “No idea luv, use your common sense”. This was ironic considering there was nothing common sense about a small cassette that somehow detected fragments of viral proteins using nasopharyngeal swabs. I used a blood sample instead of a nasal sample, looking back, I’m pretty sure this was incorrect.
My former landlady was now in residence at nearby Peckham. She’d moved from Brighton to London to start a new job just as lockdown descended. Still on a trial period and not covered by the any government support scheme, her new employer sacked her, cutting their losses. With time and isolation on her hands she threw herself into helping the NHS which meant preparing me food packs everyday. Shepard’s Pie, lasagna, roast chicken and mash, apple and rhubarb pie. She took social distancing very seriously and would meet me half way between mine and hers, she on one side of the road, me on the other. She would place the food parcels in the middle of the road and I would retrieve them back to my side of the road. We would bellow back and forth until hoarse and then I would bow gratefully and withdraw into the shadows with her assuring me of tomorrow’s supplies “Toad in the Hole with maple syrup gravy!” Only 3 weeks ago she was tucking me into her spare bed and giving me a hot cup of cocoa. Now more than ever I needed this kind of comfort and its absence was harrowing. My most motherly friend was cold and suspicious and on the other side of the road.
When I finally did get to hug my daughter I was so excited I leapt over a merry-go-round in the playground and landed on my side, fracturing my ankle. Not being able to get into A&E I dressed it myself and reinforced it with packing tape. This was the spirit of the time. Just get on with it because there are people much worse off.
Christmas 2020 I checked into a Premier Inn in Brixton and quarantined for 7 days, after my housemates tested positive for Covid, one of them in ICU. My Clapham mates Michael and Jarrod met me at Windrush Square in Brixton to convince me to side-step lockdown regulations and join them for Christmas dinner. I was desperate for turkey and a cuddle but I hobbled away mumbling about owing it to the dead.
It wasn’t until June 2022 I tested positive myself after 5 days of a blistering sore throat and thunderous fever. This coincided with my daughter’s 3rd birthday and I couldn’t attend her weekend celebrations. Already feeling cheated by the virus, I lay in bed overwhelmed by the injustice of my situation. Until now I’d calmed myself by placing my pandemic-related “bad luck” in the context of loved ones not being able to say goodbye to their dying parents in hospital due to Covid restrictions (as was the case across the country and world) but during the peak of Covid fever the bigger picture was hard to see. With sweat pouring out of me, I texted a work colleague “I hope everyone in the world gets this thing and dies a horrible death”. The fever talking. Sorry 8 million people.
The slow opening of society was difficult to embrace because everything was a bit shit. All the places you once loved were not quite right, like butter left open in a fridge over night.
My androgynist photographer friend and I ventured out to Soho on a night out, he in knee high boots with 3 inch heels and me in a loose fitting beige suit to conceal the lockdown muffin top…imagine a sack of potatoes and a Geisha on a night out. We were escorted to a table by a masked security guard with a clipboard. On either side of our table were plastic dividers to stop the virus being propelled through the air to the next table by a sneeze, cough or hilarious banter. Pre-2020 this was a jampacked bar full of homosexuals and their girlfriends miming the words to Kylie songs, drenching each other in saliva. And now it was a scattering of pods and private conversations. Only Kylie remained, her lockdown classic Say Something playing softly so as not to encourage dancing or hope. I saw a man waving to me from a pod across the way. It was an old buddy I hadn’t seen for years so I leapt to my feet and headed over, forgetting about the restrictions. I was very quickly cut off by the security guard who grabbed me by the elbow and guided me back to my pod like I was a Stop Oil Now activist. My Geisha ripped off his rainbow mask and screamed loudly. I could see my old buddy across the way shaking his fist in the air showing solidarity or perhaps ordering another drink. It all happened so fast he could have missed it. Shaken, we asked for the bill so we could escape this dystopian nightmare. The masked security guard slapped the bill on the table and walked off. 2 x Fire Engines and 1 x Negroni. 72 quid. 72 quid? 72 quid? He returned with a card machine and I tapped my card and snatched it away. Giving security guards attitude during Covid restrictions, had come to this. The sharp withdrawal of my payment card was all I had. “Next time scan the barcode and use the app to order and pay for your drinks” he said, pointing to a barcode sticker on the table. And now I didn’t even have that.
Storming out of a gay bar 72 pounds lighter and sober as a judge, I began to realise things were not just a bit shit, they were proper shit. The price of an underwhelming night out had skyrocketed. Within a year, a cost of living crisis would be upon us, pouring salt into our wounds and digging it out with a rusty spoon. The perfect excuse for Capitalism to do less and charge more. Even though starving to death would be good for my figure, I wished it was 2019 again.
Covid-19 cheated us of a lot but my story is one of millions. What’s yours?
Thanks to collaborators: Toots, Theo, Caroline, Sue, Amy, Julie, Michael, Jarrod, Veronika, Theresa, Jonathan, Adrian and Claire.
