People are hurting and it’s running deep – so remember that
the next time you say the lockdown wasn’t too bad for you.
The job you finished and long ago in the rearview mirror
didn’t need any new negotiations or strategy just for turning up –
the children raised and gone and fumbling with their own under
the new conditions, the food in plentiful supply, the money in the bank;
good on you for making it through in perfect conditions. Your
personality had prepared you for social distancing long before
it was ever a thing. Your art is shit just as it was before, your sourdough
bread would only taste good to others if they knew you had
choked on it. Coming out of something fine when you entered in
with more than enough to equip you requires no medal presentation.
Checking on your neighbours, or someone much further down the road
would be a better thing than announcing your tiny and obvious triumph.
You are basically Eric Clapton after Tears in Heaven, you’re a Van Morrison
record from 1995. You’re the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and
therefore the worst kind of white privilege. Why don’t you sit in the corner
with a bejeweled dunce hat and quietly just go gentrify yourself.