Covid#31 - Never prouder to be a teacher

It’s the end of the half-term break from schools.  It was a break I went into thinking I might get halfway through and decide I’d just as well be at work and it has been a strange break, taking place during the third national lockdown, with the ‘stay at home’ rule in force, limiting the places to go, things to do and people to see.  February half-term can often be a bit like that, however; cold, dark, grey winter days are not very enticing and I often find myself enjoying this week for lazy, cosy indoors days, watching films, reading, writing a little, listening to music. 

Now it’s time to look forward to returning to school for the second half of the school year but in these times of uncertainty, we don’t really know what it is that we’re looking forward to.  Across the country, school has been closed to most children since Christmas and most of them have only seen one full term of ‘normal’ school since last spring.  There’s optimism that schools in England will re-open to more children in a couple of weeks’ time, but this lockdown has been marked by the Prime Minister’s caution too and knowledge that there won’t be a rush back to normality as there was after last year’s lockdowns.  There’s not yet any knowing how many students I will have in my classroom in the coming weeks.

I teach in a special school where I have a small class of five teenaged boys, all of whom have a diagnosis of autism.  Since Christmas, only one of my class has attended school; the other four have remained at home although they had the option to return – my school decided (rightly in my opinion) to re-open in January to as many families as wanted to send their children.  There was a view, I believe, that all children at our school are vulnerable because of their individual needs, and an acceptance that for many of them and their families, their emotional well-being was enhanced by their being at school rather than at home.

What I failed to acknowledge at the start of term was the capacity of my boys to make up their own minds, so I didn’t anticipate their own decision to stay at home.  They are all what we refer to as ‘high-functioning’ young men with a version of autism that is often referred to as Asperger’s, so they have the same capacity for learning as neurotypical young people and similar understanding of the world around them.  They themselves therefore have good understanding of what coronavirus is and its consequences; they follow the news; they know that students their age in other schools are staying at home and they have their own perceptions of the risks of returning to school, and some of them are fearful.  None of them attended school between the end of March and September last year so they have memories of that too – they coped with that lockdown and they and their families stayed safe.  Moreover, the costs of missing out on classroom learning, which are hard for them to grasp, were outweighed by the benefits to a young person with autism of staying at home without the pressures and anxieties of being at school with all its unpredictables, and of being able to indulge in their special interests as much as they liked.  I have complete respect for the decision they each took.

Like most classrooms, mine has been an odd place to be in the past couple of months but we’ve adapted well.  I spend two to three hours each morning delivering live lessons via Zoom – English or Maths each day and usually one other subject – Careers, PSHE, History, Science, French and Geography are delivered in this way, following our normal curriculum.  Some of these lessons are for everyone, with the one student in the classroom joining the others in their bedrooms via Zoom, whilst some are for smaller groups or one-to-one.  At first, I hated the prospect of teaching in this way, but I quickly got used to it and have even taken to it well.  The occasional technical glitch aside (and thankfully, they are rare), I’ve been surprised by how much we have achieved and by the levels of students’ engagement – attendance-rates are high and they participate well.

I e-mail follow-up work for those at home to complete together with work for the other subjects that we don’t do ‘live’.  I get some work e-mailed back to me – more from some students than others – but frustratingly, the quality of what they send me is nowhere near what they would achieve in the classroom.  They’ve certainly missed out on the support they’d get at school – the glance over their shoulder at the work they’re doing; the encouragement; the feedback, tips and advice; the expectation; and the praise.  I mark their work, scan it and send it back to them with my feedback; I’m not sure they read it and take it on board, but it’s the best I can do.

The student attending school has had a great time, probably valuing school more than ever.  A teaching assistant supports him so the one-to-one attention and support he is receiving is intensive and sensitive, and for him, the unpredictables that usually come with a fuller classroom have been removed.  His response has been phenomenal.  He is more relaxed and engaging so both my TA and I have been able to develop our relationship with him.  Most significantly, he has shown far more interest in his learning, spending much longer on activities than previously, producing far more work of a higher quality than ever before and making leaps and bounds in progress.  Him mum has commented that ironically, this has been the best year for him academically, and it’s been a real joy to share it with him.  Now we’re wondering what we can learn and take from it.  It’s important, I think, to recognise the positive outcomes of the circumstances in which we find ourselves, as well as the challenges.

For all the boys and their families, there are huge positives.  They’re probably not unlike most teenagers in relishing being able to set their own routine, including staying in bed for longer and spending more time gaming and watching YouTube, and I’m not so naïve as to think this wasn’t part of the motivation for their decision to stay at home!  They’ve also openly told me that they’re living their best life by being at home on their own and one or two parents have told me of how much more at ease their sons seem – that’s a reflection of their autism.  For all that though, I’m certain they appreciate the routine that live Zoom lessons and schoolwork provides – they show up and engage well, after all.

Of course, there have been challenges.  Parents can’t be superheroes, supporting all their children with their schoolwork, and some quickly became lost and frustrated and, as one put it, felt like they were going mad.  Some of my students had to share devices with their siblings, all trying to access their own lessons at different times.  It emerged that some were attempting Zoom-learning and completing their work on a small and even cracked smartphone screen, which must have been nigh-on impossible.  They (and more often their parents) don’t always have the technical confidence to access what they need online and parents often don’t have the knowledge or confidence to support their son’s learning.  We weren’t geared up for home-learning last year but now we’ve learnt a lot.  Last year, I only delivered one Zoom session each week, in contrast to at least two hours per day in these last two months.  Now, we’ve been able to provide students with a laptop if they didn’t have one.  We’ve realised how much more we could achieve, the consequences of failing and as our expectations have grown, our young people have risen to meet them.

For my part, I truly believe that work has kept me going through these dark times.  I live on my own so lockdown alone at home in the depths of winter would have been hard and I’m not great at working from home – I’ve realised how much motivation I derive from having other busy people around me – so that would have been challenging too.  I feel lucky that my daily routine has hardly changed since the start of this lockdown in January, to have had continuing human contact at school and the opportunity to work hard and be possibly busier than ever.  The days and weeks of this lockdown have flown by.

I’m very conscious that it’s been very different for many other teachers.  Returning to the workplace while infection rates were high could be frightening; colleagues have been anxious for themselves and about inadvertently taking the virus home with them to infect their families.  There’s been concern about children left at home because their own school is shut while mum or dad return to do their job.  I’ve relished the challenge of managing home-learning alongside classroom-based learning.  Despite my small class and the support of a teaching assistant, it comes with its own issues when your students all have special educational needs, but understandably, others have found it more challenging, with bigger classes, uncooperative learners, demanding parents, safeguarding concerns, too much pressure from above and not enough support.  While work has thankfully kept me going, it’s been really tough on some of my colleagues.  Covid has been good for empathy, I think.

I’m glad to be at work and I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a swift and successful return to school for all children and young people in a couple of weeks.  There will be some who disagree with me and feel that it’s too soon to re-open schools, but children need to be in school – they’re missing out on far too much education and too many personal and social opportunities while they’re at home – and we teachers have an important job to do.  This emergency has given me more appreciation of the value of work for my own well-being and a greater sense of the purpose and worth that my work provides.  I like to imagine that some of the doctors, nurses and scientists who are our Covid heroes credit their own teachers with getting them where they are now and I like to think about the children sitting in front of their laptop for their Zoom lessons or in their Covid-secure classroom bubbles today who will go on to become the doctors, nurses and scientists of tomorrow, thanks in no small part to the efforts of their teachers. 

I’ve never been prouder to be a teacher. 

Covid#30 - We're all scientists now

 

Three days ago I had the first of my Covid vaccinations.  The next day was a total write-off as I suffered what I am assured was only a really strong immune response, which is a good thing, but didn’t feel that way with my head pounding and as waves of nausea enveloped me.  It only lasted twenty-four hours though, so I won’t dwell on that.

As the nurse removed the needle from my arm at the end of my brief appointment at a local pharmacy, I succumbed to that post-jab cliché of asking, ‘Is that it?!’  I actually meant it; it seemed so inconsequential.  It was, of course, nothing of the sort – not for me or for the now fifteen million people in the UK who have had the first of our two jabs.  When I returned to my car and posted on Facebook of my excitement and relief, it really did feel that something momentous had just happened.

Many months ago, I wrote about how ‘Covid19 will define our age as one of great scientific and technological discovery and endeavour’ (Covid#9).  Since then, we’ve all become scientists as we’ve understood the emergence of coronavirus and added zoonoses to our lexicon; grappled with how it spreads and how best to protect ourselves and each other; followed the race to develop treatments and vaccines; watched as the virus mutated and new variants took hold and now as we join hopefully in the mass-experiment that is this epic vaccination programme.  I, for one, have been fascinated by the science from the outset.

I am, in fact, in awe of coronavirus.  It’s effects are obviously dreadful, but it knows nothing about that.  It is simply doing what it’s meant to do – reproduce, thrive and survive – and what is literally awe-ful about it is just how well it does its job.  We’ve all become familiar with images of the virus, surrounded by its spike-proteins, designed to latch onto and unlock our own cells, but it’s both frightening and incredible that that spikey little ball is about one-hundredth the size of one of our cells and forever invisible to most of us who don’t own an electro-microscope.  Despite that, once it’s delivered its genetic material to our cells then instructed them to copy and reassemble it before self-destructing, it can have replicated itself billions of times in just a few days.

The mutations that resulted in the original zoonotic jump and the Kent, Brazil and South African variations of the virus that have caused so much concern since December may be more luck than judgement (from the virus’ perspective, that is) but it’s no less remarkable that by random chance, a copying error as it replicates can enable it to claim an unfortunate new host and enhance its effectiveness – or virulence.  How is it even possible that something so miniscule can contain enough material to mutate so significantly as to have such devastating consequences?  It’s wonderfully mind-boggling!

I’m equally impressed by our immune system.  A couple of years ago, I fell seriously ill.  As I lay in a hospital bed, wired up to machines with all sorts of tests being conducted, I was scared yet I had little cause to be because, as a doctor later explained to me, my incredible immune system had kicked in and was already doing a brilliant job of dealing with the infection in my liver.  For most people, the same is true of a coronavirus infection.  Despite having never experienced it before, somehow our body knows what to do and can fight it off before we suffer any more than mild symptoms.  Even when coronavirus infects our neutrophiles and t-cells, causing the overreaction known as a ‘cytokine storm’ and turning them against even healthy cells, in most of us, our immune system eventually wins out.  It fills me with wonder!

The scientists who discover and explain all this can not earn enough admiration and praise.  Thanks to them, I have learnt a lot about the basic science of the virus and our immune system, but it is beyond me how they managed to decode its genetic sequence in such short order after the outbreak began in China, use it to invent the tests that have become part of our everyday life and then track changes in that code over time, revealing those dastardly mutations.

That syringe bearing its crystal-clear vaccine seemed so insubstantial as it lay in its dull grey cardboard tray, awaiting my arm.  Truly however, it symbolised all that scientific endeavour about which I previously wrote.  I’ve watched Professor Teresa Lambe describe how the genetic code arrived in her e-mail inbox on a Saturday morning in January 2020 and how, clad in her pyjamas, she worked through the weekend to have a vaccine designed by the Monday.  By March, it had entered human trials.

I received the Oxford-Astrazeneca vaccine.  It’s a vector-vaccine that uses a modified version of a chimpanzee adenovirus, to which the gene for the coronavirus spike protein has been added.  Once my cells were ‘infected’ with this false-virus, the spike-protein was read by my cells’ nuclei and copied into messenger RNA; the adenovirus itself, however, had been engineered to not be replicated so I didn’t fall ill as a result.  The MRNA was then read by my cell’s molecules, which began assembling those spike-proteins.  Some of those spikes then protruded through my cells’ surface, awakening my immune system.  When the ‘infected’ cell died, the debris – including those spike-proteins – was swept up by antigen-presenting cells to be recognised by helper T cells.  B-lymphocytes activated by those helper T cells then poured out antibodies that latch onto genuine coronavirus spikes, marking them for destruction and preventing them from infecting other cells.  Meanwhile, killer T cells (which sound like something out of a science fiction film) were also activated by the antigen-presenting cells to find and destroy any of my cells infected by coronavirus. 

All this remarkable process was playing out at a microscopic level inside my body whilst I lay on the sofa nursing my headache, and it’s all thanks to the incredible efforts of the scientists at Oxford University and Astrazeneca and their friends all around the world.  I was shaking my head in disbelief and awe as I wrote even the second sentence of that last paragraph; it’s so easy to write a few words about adding a gene to a chimp virus, yet they undoubtedly represent so much research, understanding and effort.

That insubstantial-looking syringe, filled with its miraculous elixir and the hopes of everyone for an end to this pandemic, deserved to be made from lead-crystal and to rest on a velvet cushion atop a gold and jewel-encrusted tray!  I feel a bit sad that it was destined only for one of those vivid-yellow sharps bins.  A bit of me wishes I could have kept it.

Covid#29 - Finding whatever merriness I can this Christmas

At the weekend, Boris made his most depressing announcements so far, putting swathes of the south-east of England into a new tier four, telling them they must not mix with anyone beyond their own households over Christmas whilst telling the rest of us we could spend just Christmas Day with loved ones, rather than the five days he’d previously said he would allow us.  It was his response to the news that a mutated version of coronavirus is now doing the rounds in the south-east, wreaking havoc with up to 70% greater transmissibility than mark one, causing infection rates to spike there once again.  So far, Bournemouth (my home) and the south-west remains in tier two.

It’s no secret that I resent all the rules (I’ve written about it before).  The Prime Minister’s previous announcement of his five-day festive window for up to three households to form a celebratory bubble left me fuming.  It’s not the government’s place to tell people who they can and can not see or to interfere in Christmas plans.  Neither is it really its job to protect us all from a virus and prevent us from dying; it doesn’t go to such extreme lengths to prevent deaths from other illnesses from seasonal flu to HIV, and many of us would be outraged if it did.  It’s the responsibility of each of us to listen to wise advice, assess the risks to ourselves, show respect for others and behave sensibly. 

When governments step in, they diminish people’s sense of personal responsibility and they fuel mistrust in others.  I can’t abide the view I’ve heard time and again – sometimes laced with barely-disguised racism – that restrictions are justified because certain people can’t be trusted to behave responsibly.  Foolishly, ministers also lay pretty huge traps for themselves.  They tie themselves in knots with rules that become more and more confusing as they keep changing and that can not be enforced, and there’s anger on social media.  Consequently, some demand clarification and yet more restrictions or even another punishing lockdown with all its devastating implications, whilst others become more resentful and increasingly ignore the rules.   

‘Damned if they do and damned if they don’t,’ say the commentators, which may be true, but ultimately, when politicians declare that no level of deaths is acceptable, they mislead people, unreasonably raise expectations and doom themselves to failure.  It’s also patently untrue: tragically, nearly seventy thousand people have now died in Britain, yet no-one is protesting or rioting.  Despite what Boris and his government think, we are mature enough to accept the grim reality of a pandemic. 

Perhaps the strongest argument for any restrictions is the protection of the NHS – to avoid it being overwhelmed by Covid patients requiring hospital treatment.  Politically, it’s a difficult case for Boris and his government to make, however, lest it imply their own neglect of the health service.  Moreover, it risks raising our expectations of a health service that is already vulnerable and could never fully cope with a pandemic on this scale.

Mine is a controversial point of view, I know, but it’s not one I hold without sympathy for anyone who has suffered or is suffering with Covid, for anyone who has lost someone dear to them or for anyone who is now trapped alone.  There is an inevitability to death during a global pandemic but of course, every loss is an awful tragedy to those who are bereaved.

I don’t believe I’m being naïve or reckless either.  I know the risks I take; importantly, so do the people with whom I spend any time; and I completely respect anyone’s choice to not see me.  I take sensible precautions, continuing to respect social distance, limiting the numbers of people I see, meeting others outdoors, wearing my mask and washing my hands.  Above all, I am grateful for my good fortune (so far, at least) in living in a part of the country that has fared better than most, at avoiding the virus and staying well and healthy.

I’m now in Devon, at my mum and dad’s, where I’ll spend most of the next week and be joined by my uncle for Christmas Day.  I had no expectations when I spoke to them after Boris changed the Christmas rules.  We agreed though that fortunately, we’re all in good health and none of us is especially vulnerable.  My uncle and I both travel from single-person households and not from multi-person households so arguably, we’re at less risk than much larger three-household bubbles.  We won’t see anyone else.  And none of us really understands how there would be less risk in us getting together for just one day instead of a few more.  We’re responsible grown-ups; we know our circumstances, we know the risks and we’ll take care of ourselves and each other.

No-one is having a particularly joyous Christmas.  Even with the company of family, surrounded by sparkling decorations and looking forward to a traditional feast, Covid feels close at hand, I’m aware of friends, family and others spending Christmas alone or bereaved, sad and fearful, and there’s a flatness to this festive season.  I am deeply sorry for anyone who can not enjoy the Christmas they hoped for but hope no-one will resent those of us like me doing the best we can, even if we are breaking the rules. 

After the year we’ve all endured, can anyone really be blamed for finding whatever merriness they can in this Christmas?

It's the goldcrest that did it

The day hadn’t started well.  The milk was off, my coffee went down the drain, I dribbled toothpaste down my shirt and the dog threw up.  By the time my partner and I were ready to go to the shop for fresh milk, I was a three but it was the goldcrest that did it.  I’d never seen one in the garden before yet there it was, a lively ball of green and creamy brown with that dazzling gold crown.  I went to snap a picture but my phone slipped through my fingers, smacking on the drive, the screen a web of cracks.  I cracked too. 

There’s a scale that autistic kids are taught for times like this and this was me at the top of the scale – a five – screaming, shouting, stamping on the shattered phone, leaping furiously into the car and speeding off who knows where, my partner forgotten on the roadside.  Except really, we both knew where I’d go.

Though I’m invariably almost surprised to find myself here, it’s always to the Head that I come.  Once, thousands of years ago, it was a bustling port; today it’s a reserve of nature, peace and tranquillity, broken – to my shame – by my slamming car door.

I start with an angry march down a path with fields – an ancient burial ground – to one side and the water of the harbour to the other.  There’s a burning, churning ache in my stomach and my chest, my heart is pounding, my breath ragged.  I notice nothing until a kestrel catches my eye, hanging in the air, wings beating with an electric crackle, eyes fixed.  I stop and watch until it swoops away, harried by nervous swallows.  My breathing slows.  My heart quietens.  I’m a four. 

Further on, there’s the yaffling cackle of a woodpecker, the bouncing flight of green and red before it lands in a tree, clinging to the trunk, disappearing behind a bough, reappearing.  Hide and seek.  I’m not yet ready to laugh myself, but a knot unravels in my chest.  Three.

On I walk – slower now – to the water’s edge where a heron stands one-legged in the reeds listening to the prehistoric call of egrets from the woods.  A redshank struts through the shallow water, carefully planting its garish legs, probing the mud with its beak.  Distant terns plunge into the harbour.  Minutes pass.  I sigh and feel my shoulders relax.  Two.

From there, my path takes me through woodland where I’m followed by an ever-amiable robin.  A thrush sings loudly, dunnocks hide, tits dance among the branches and from somewhere, there’s the staccato call of a chiffchaff.  I pause once more.  There’s an almost imperceptible flittering in a birch; a tiny bird with a dazzling gold crown perches on a twig, its head cocked, beady black eye on me.  As the bird and I watch each other, a loving, forgiving hand slips into mine and I smile.  I’m a one.  It’s the goldcrest that did it.

Covid#28 - A reminder that we are not invincible

This must surely be the first time in human history when our response to an emergency such as coronavirus has been to impose lockdowns on entire countries.

When Spanish Flu swept around the world after World War One, there was no nationwide lockdown.  When the first person died in Britain in May 1918, war took precedence over suppressing the virus.  Suggestions (and there were some) that the sick be advised to stay at home and that people should avoid large gatherings were dismissed.  Hospitals were overwhelmed; nonetheless, while many theatres, dance halls and cinemas closed, there was no widespread lockdown and pubs remained open, large crowds attended football matches and people continued with their everyday life.  Some wore anti-germ masks, but they weren’t compulsory.

I wonder what someone from 1918 would make of our twenty-first century reaction to coronavirus.  

Sudden, widespread death seems to have become unconscionable to us.  Numbers of potential deaths are used to scare us – the first lockdown began after half a million deaths were predicted and this second one was ordered after newspaper headlines screamed projections of four thousand deaths per day.  Each day, the latest number of recorded deaths is reported and grimly, we watch the death-toll rise.  Like never before, we watch television with sadness as strangers talk about the tragic deaths of their loved-ones and fearfully, we reflect on death’s proximity to us all.  Above all, we have become familiar with the concept of ‘excess deaths’ – the idea that only so many deaths should be expected, perhaps even that only so many should be tolerated.

In March, the Prime Minister even talked of families losing loved ones ‘before their time’.  It’s a strange phrase that also reveals a lot about our attitude to death, implying that we have ‘a time’ when we should expect to die and even that we know when it is.  It goes hand-in-hand with the seemingly inexorable rise in life expectancy that has come with our advances in science and medicine, improved diet and nutrition and better living standards.  We should expect nothing less than to achieve that grand old age of eighty-one.

Perhaps we’ve even started to believe we can control death.  After all, we’ve eradicated smallpox, engineered antibiotics to fight infection, created drugs to suppress viruses like HIV, dramatically improved treatments for many cancers, halved the number of deaths from malaria since the turn of the century and achieved immunisation of vast populations against diseases like tuberculosis, polio, meningitis and measles.

Personally, I’m fortunate to have had little close experience of death.  I’m forty-three now so it’s not surprising that my four grandparents have all passed on but I enjoyed nearly forty years with two of them who lived into their nineties.  An aunt, Marion, died last year and sadly, I lost a good friend, Luke, to cancer in his early-twenties.  Many people of my generation would have experienced a similar, low tally of deaths – probably much lower than our grandparents would have had at our age.  We don’t have to confront death with the regularity they and their forebears did; maybe we don’t even have to contemplate it in the same way.

Coronavirus, a plague out of place in the twenty-first century, forces us to contemplate death.  And our instinct, born of the last century, is to control it, diminish it, defeat it.  One hundred years ago in Britain, 228,000 people died of Spanish Flu.  Today, we can’t countenance the scale of death that perhaps ought to be wrought by a rampaging pandemic while it runs its course and enough of us build that herd-immunity.  Neither, however, can we bear the measures that might keep it in check.

Education is central to our vision of continued progress and a better future and we value it too highly for schools, colleges and universities to close.  Our health services, as miraculous as they would seem to someone suffering from Spanish Flu one hundred years ago, creak ominously under the strain of a global pandemic for which they could not be prepared.  Many of us object to any infringement of our liberties and wouldn’t tolerate the surveillance that has made track-and-trace systems effective in more authoritarian corners of the world or harsher enforcement of restrictions and tougher penalties for rule-breakers.  Our way of life depends on the strength of our economy – even our health and well-being are inextricably linked to it – so deserted high streets, shut down businesses and increasing unemployment are deeply damaging.  Rising government spending to support business, industry, families and individuals is both imperative and unaffordable and we fear its impact on future generations.  Socially, we depend on pubs, restaurants, coffee shops, cinemas, theatres, leisure centres, clubs and gyms.  Not only do we struggle to cope without them but our mental health suffers while they are closed.  For many, a Christmas during lockdown would be unendurable.

Our comfortable, sociable, affluent, liberal twenty-first century lifestyle and society just isn’t up to the imposition of a lockdown – let alone repeated lockdowns.  Some scientists even say that this is not the terrible pandemic the world is still due; that could still come in the coming decades.  What then?  We will surely have learnt from this historic experiment that the lockdown is not the answer.  As awful as any unexpected death is for the friends and family of its victim, perhaps we need to reassess our grim relationship with death and accept that tragically, from time to time, something unexpected emerges and takes many of us.

Perhaps Covid19 is our terrible but necessary reminder that we are not invincible.

Covid#27 - It's back

By the time I wake up tomorrow, England will be in lockdown again.  A dejected sounding Boris announced his plan on Saturday with all the enthusiasm my students have for their weekly RE lesson, and Parliament voted for it this afternoon.  I’d written to my MP, Tobias Ellwood, urging him to vote against it but it wasn’t to be. 

In the spring, I was lucky to spend the first lockdown with my parents in Cornwall; this time, I shall be at home, alone in Bournemouth.  This lockdown won’t be the same though, as school will remain open so my daily routine won’t change much and I’ll be as busy with work as ever.  Obviously, there are things I will miss.  Momentarily earlier, I caught myself planning to invite friends for dinner in the next week or two, then realised that is off the cards for the foreseeable future.  My dad turns seventy at the end of this week and I had intended to spend the weekend with him and my mum in Devon, hopefully also seeing my brother’s family.  There were going to be fireworks!  All that is cancelled too.  Plenty of people have had to change their birthday plans this year so dad’s philosophical about what will be muted celebrations, but of course it’s disappointing.  I’ve become quite a gym bunny in recent months and I’ll miss my workouts there but I live by the beach so I’ll give running along the prom another go, although motivating myself on cold, dark November mornings will be challenging.  I’m fortunate; I doubt this second lockdown will have a significant impact on me.

It is, however, going to have a devastating impact on many, many other people.  I see that in some of the students in my class.  This week, they’ve talked about the after-school activities they won’t be able to do, the friends they won’t be able to see, the grandparents they will miss and their concerns for their parents’ jobs.  Their fear of the virus is heightened once again and anxieties are raised; one boy, for example, has become withdrawn and quiet, struggles to focus on his learning, and is visibly worried.  A friend who lives with his aged parents broke down in tears as he recalled the loneliness, fear and depression he felt during the first lockdown, which he now dreads once again.  Tonight, there will be people all around the country – far less fortunate than me – trying to prepare themselves for another lonely month, separated from family and friends, seemingly trapped in their homes.  For many, the cost of another lockdown in terms of their well-being and mental health will be unbearable.

The cost to young people is particularly calamitous.  They have already suffered educational chaos with the six-month closure of school to most, the dismal handling of their exam results and their imprisonment in their halls on their return to university.  Working in industries like tourism, leisure and hospitality – all of which have been hit hard by Covid restrictions – many young people have found themselves unable to work, furloughed or unemployed.  Those entering the jobs market for the first time find it impossibly challenging.  I’ve listened on podcasts to an aerospace graduate devastated at not even being able to find work even in supermarkets and the despairing mother of a young man with mild learning difficulties who lost the critical job he had and loved in his local café.  I could have wept.  Even after-school sports activities, with the vital social opportunities they offer, are to be shut down, despite that the same children are able to attend school together.  Like so much of the Government’s response to this pandemic, it makes no sense.  It is young people that are bearing the disproportionate cost of this crisis and their plight is only worsened by another lockdown.

It doesn’t stop there either; the eye-watering debt we are accruing will be largely born by the young people who are already paying so much, and probably by their children and grandchildren too.  I am terrified by the economic cost of the pandemic: falling GDP, rising unemployment, the collapse of so many businesses and runaway Government spending.  Of course, some financial support to individuals, families and business is imperative to maintain a functioning society, economy and way-of-life, but difficult choices soon need confronting (if they didn’t already) as it becomes increasingly unaffordable.  Another lockdown only exacerbates an already dire economic outlook for future generations.  Just as there is a moral duty on us all to slow the spread of coronavirus and protect lives, so there is a moral duty to guarantee the economic well-being of our children and grandchildren.

Readers of my previous Covid-themed blogs will know that I’ve never been a fan of all the Covid rules (‘Stop telling me what to do!’ was the title of one from June).  I did, however, accept the restrictions of the first lockdown, necessitated as they were by the scale of the emergency brought about by the initial onslaught of coronavirus.  I was wearing a face-mask long before it became compulsory; I respect social distance; I clean fastidiously; and I do all the other sensible things I can to help suppress the virus.  I have, however, become increasingly resentful of the Government’s laughably unenforceable attempts to control so much of my life.  Take my gym, for example.  It is surely one of the safest places anyone could be: equipment has been shut down to ensure social distancing; screens have been erected between each machine; we all follow one-way systems; staff are forever cleaning; and I and other responsible gym-goers spray and wipe down everything like never before.  As far as I’m aware (and surely I would be), there has been no outbreak of Covid at my gym.  Despite this and all the measures that have been taken, we’re told we can no longer go there.   I take exception to being treated like a child – grounded by Boris like a naughty boy.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m a grown-up!  Give me information about the virus, the risks and the measures I should take, and then trust me to do the right thing.

If there really is a need for a second lockdown, it’s because of the Government’s failure to get a grip of this crisis.  It has lurched from one short-lived plan to another, its rules have become more and more confusing as they have changed so quickly, and its messaging has been hopeless.  NHS Test and Trace is a long way from the world-beating system we were promised six months ago.  500,000 tests per day by the end of October were promised by Boris, yet only 280,000 were carried out, while in mid-October only 15% of those tested were getting their results within twenty-fours (as he had also promised they would), and less than 60% of close contacts were being successfully traced.  The Government has no effective overall long-term strategy to manage this crisis, which is why we now risk a cycle of repeated and catastrophic lockdowns.

Boris was right to say that a second national lockdown would be a disaster and it’s one that can be laid firmly at the door of Number Ten.

Covid#26 - Stop telling me what to do!

I’ve been getting angrier by the day.  I am fed up of being told what to do.  I am fed up of incoherent messages from an incompetent government.  I have had enough of Covid-warriors on social media claiming some moral high-ground and preaching about what is right.

In these unprecedented circumstances, no-one can claim to know what is absolutely right and it is hard to imagine another time when we would all look to Boris Johnson to tell us what to do!  We’re grown-ups who can think for ourselves, not slavishly accept what clever people say and what we read or see in the media.  We’re suffering a pandemic of acquiescence that has reached new heights in recent months.  It’s shocking what a frightening new virus can do to us.

Coronavirus is frightening; I accept that.  In many of my blog-posts since lockdown began, I’ve tried to understand the impact the pandemic has had on so many people.  As I’ve written in different words before, it arrived so suddenly and killed so indiscriminately, it’s no wonder many of us felt safer locked-down and many still feel safer shielded or socially distanced from anyone else.  The dramatic measures taken at the end of March were necessary too; they were effective in reducing infections, slowing the death-rate and ensuring the NHS was not overwhelmed.

Not for one moment do I think we should be complacent; we must guard against a second spike in infections.  The first peak (God willing, the only peak) has passed though and it’s time to reflect more rationally on the restrictions we endured, the measures we took and the way we behave.  In the cooler light of the early hours of day, what made sense?  And what didn’t?  How much faith do we have in the politicians that led us through the first months of this crisis?

Personally, I have no faith in Boris Johnson and his partners in government.  His is a party that knew a pandemic was the greatest risk to the country; however, not only did they inadequately prepare – even when their own simulation identified the weaknesses in the system – they actively ran down the essential kit the NHS would need to protect its doctors and nurses.  Johnson himself is a man who couldn’t be bothered with the epidemic when it first emerged.  He flagrantly ignored advice to limit social contact, declaring that he continued to shake hands even in Covid-affected hospitals, ultimately threatening even his own life.  Until the likely cost was pointed out, I suspect the early strategy was to build herd-immunity, and I think that message probably and reasonably sticks in the minds of many – especially the young and healthy who are at less risk.  Testing in the community was abandoned then Matt Hancock talked about ramping it up in the very week the pandemic reached its peak.  They abjectly failed to provide the NHS with the protective resources it needed and they neglected care homes.  Advice about face-masks is vague and confusing.  We’re instructed to stay at home and we question our own instincts, yet government advisers find flexibility in the rules that most didn’t imagine existed and take a road-trip across the country.  The easing of lockdown measures seems more politically expedient than scientifically advisable; SAGE members themselves question it.  Restrictions are eased so we can meet relatives in a garden-centre but not in their own gardens.  They won’t allow more than six friends or family to meet but are obviously and rightly powerless to prevent thousands congregating in protest.  The two-metre social distance rule is thrown into doubt by the Prime Minister himself.  Schools are told it is safe for children to return then they are told to remain closed to most until September.  The R is heralded as the number we should all watch, fearfully, then we’re told it’s not so reliable.  Not only can no-one claim absolute moral authority to tell us what is right, no-one can really have any clue; confusion reigns.

Still though, the Prime Minister stands behind his lecturn and tells us what he will and will not allow.  He will allow us to meet up to six people outdoors so long as we remain two metres apart.  He will allow us to meet each other in our gardens, so long as we only enter the house to use the toilet and wipe it down afterward.  He will allow those of us who are single and living alone to form a ‘bubble’ between our households and spend the night in each other’s homes.  The media would even have us believe that some of us are now permitted by Boris to have sex with each other.  Everyone knows he has no way of enforcing these edicts and that they are being flouted left, right and centre.  If he was a man with any authority at all, his pronouncements would make him a laughing stock; as it is, I really don’t know how he dares to continue telling us what to do.

If there is any real strategy within governement, it’s painfully divisive too.  As we come out of lockdown, it’s inevitable that there will be some who want to stick to the old, seemingly safe rules while there are others who are less cautious, more prepared to test the boundaries and take some risks.  Some are the tentative skiers taking a gentle route down the mountain I’ve written about before, while others are self-assured black-runners.  We probably need some risk-takers too, to help us all learn what is possible and how to live alongside the virus.  While Johnson and his government keep up their charade of authority with all their ridiculous rules, they drive a wedge between the rule-takers and the apparent rule-breakers.

Boris had a point when he suggested we use our common sense, and he should have stuck with it, showing his own trust in us and promoting trust in each other, instead of sowing seeds of division.  Government strategy ought to be to help us understand the virus we are now living with, provide us with clear, up-to-date scientific information as it becomes available and provide us with limited, unambiguous advice – not instructions any longer.  Then, they should encourage and trust us to make our own judgements of the level of risk we’re each prepared to take, show consideration for others and find our own way to live alongside coronavirus, as we must.

We’re not complacent; we want to protect ourselves and show regard for others around us.  To most of us, some measures seem sensible: maintaining social distance, meeting outdoors, getting tested if we fall unwell and washing our hands.  There’s simple logic to them, underpinned by simple science we understand.  Don’t tell us we can see six people one week and eight people the next, that we must stay two metres away from someone until next week when it will be okay to be as close as one metre, that there are some places we can visit but not others, or who we can have sex with from one week to the next.  Give us the facts we need to make our own informed, sensible, grown-up decisions about all these things and more.

It’s no good telling us to use common sense and do our civic duty if you then undermine both along with personal responsibility and individual liberty by paternalistically telling us what to do as if we’re children.  We don’t need telling what is the right way to behave by government or by any Covid-warriors; we should be given the information we need and trusted to do the right thing.