Mind you, I started early in the pandemic, back in March last year, remember that? I was in Leeds, which is never a good place to get bad news, when my husband called me to say that he had a cough and his office mates were getting nervy.
He’s had that cough since 1985, to my certain knowledge. He probably had one before, but I can’t swear to that, so not my responsibility, mate.
Well, I said, I’ve put up with it these 30 years, so can your office mates.
He said: “They’re sending me home to self-isolate.”
Lost the plot a bit over that. I said you can’t be told to self-isolate, you decide to self-isolate. It’s the self bit, y’see, you’re making the decision. Like “self indulgent”. It's you ramming the black forest gateau down your gob, not some passing deranged paterissie force feeder.
He said: “They're sending me home from work and you’re not at home so I can watch documentaries about trains all day.”
Fair ’nuff, I said.
And then this tier thing started up. At one point we were apparently in tier zero, but how could that be, because doesn’t that mean there are no tiers, right? Apparently we’re now “beyond” tier zero. What happens if we ever get back to normal, which in Leith is always a pretty debatable state? Will that be tier minus one or minus two?
Ms Sturgeon popped up the other day to tell us that things are looking simultaneously stable and wobbly. Numbers were rising, the scientists were OK about this, but now is not the moment to fling off our masks and start licking the handrails of the Number 22 bus.
We, like Zorro and The Lone Ranger, must remain masked, although technically their masks are in the wrong place. We should continue to get jabbed and stand distant from each other, something I’m actually becoming quite fond of.
Let’s just say there are still those unaware of the benefits of a quick sluice down followed by a once over with the deodorant.
Masks, jabs, distance. So that’s a tier, right?