Like many people in the creative industries and beyond, a lot of my work has slowed down significantly or been postponed (film & TV projects, freelance writing, etc). Like most responsible people, I’ve been practicing social distancing for a while now, since the scale of the pandemic became abundantly clear weeks ago. It’s been a challenge to stay put, so I figured I’d start writing little 500-word things that keep me busy (and sane), and who knows, maybe someone else will enjoy them too.
I drank a can of wine at 4pm at my ‘home office’ desk today. Nothing matters anymore. Coworkers show you their cats and children on a Zoom call that they've decided to join in a bathrobe. This global lockdown has made things weird. The can of wine was obtained on a supermarket run this morning. It has become a daily ritual. The shelves are barren in the afternoon, so heading out to shops after the early morning hour dedicated to the old and vulnerable is now a necessity if you want to cook or clean. I celebrated this morning when I managed to get there early enough to secure the holy grail, a 4-pack of toilet paper and a box of paracetamol. London is supposed to be this great shining beacon of urban progress, yet here we are celebrating the obtention of toilet roll.
Like a classic Joey-from-Friends scene, it has taken the UK a few weeks to catch up with the rest of the world - finally seeing past a tabloid-driven blitz spirit and a general disdain for panic and hyperbole - and admitted something big is going on and we should all stay at home. Because my wife and I follow news from other countries, and have adhered to the Arab predilection for hypochondria, we started this whole social distancing thing before Boris caught onto the fact that it might be a good idea for all of us to stay at least six feet - or one Nicolas Cage - apart. Social distancing, flattening the curve, quarantine, we now handle this new lexicon, previously confined to academic papers, as ammunition for small talk. But there isn’t much we can control.
My grocery runs have become something I can control. I have figured out the least busy times. I go from one shop to the other - quickly, staying one Nic Cage away from other humans who all look to me like walking virus emojis. I start with the Sainsburys, then cross over to the Co-op, the Iceland, the Lidl, the Tesco and crown it all by popping into the Lebanese-run Phoenicia. I am increasingly convinced that when we’re all fighting each other over two-ply Andrex at the supermarket, our only recourse for survival will be ‘world food’ shops. But today, I’m just there to get a rabta (a stack of Lebanese bread) and some products that remind me of my parent’s kitchen. A way to connect with them that goes beyond our quarantined video call sessions.
It is unseasonably warm and the March sun pierces through the storefront. While in line, a man commits the ultimate pandemic social faux pas: he coughs the loudest cough I have ever heard. The Lebanese men manning the tills stand behind the counter in now-ubiquitous N95 masks and surgical gloves. One stares at the other and says, in Arabic, “So Ali, do you think this guy just killed us?” And they burst out laughing. Suddenly things don’t seem so bad. Suddenly it seems like we might get through this. If we don’t let it sap our character - like the Lebanese inclination towards macabre humor - maybe we can come of it unscathed and with vast supplies of toilet paper.
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