
It’s been three weeks since Boris unshackled most of the UK from a year and a half of Covid incarceration. We are now ‘free’, whatever that means, because it feels anything but. What was I expecting? Street parties, jubilant crowds running the streets, mask-burnings, a national celebration with Gary Barlow freedom anthem live from Hyde Park? I’m not sure. But certainly not this. I’ve emerged into a strange new world I must navigate with unremitting caution, one eye trained sniper-like on a microbial menace muscling in on my every move. I can go out and do things but must be ‘sensible’; I can meet friends, but even when we’re off the isolation hook, will spend days waiting for ‘the ping’; and while I’m no longer obliged to mask-up, only piggishly selfish and inconsiderate bottom-holes parade supermarket aisles shamelessly flaunting unguarded, disease-spewing cavities. (pic: Matt Seymour. C/o Unsplash) We’re trapped in a not-really-post-apocalyptic limbo. Everything we do comes wit...