Hugs were never illegal.
As the next lockdown easing step unfolds; people can now meet inside.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-57136140
I confess I snuck up to London before that, after my second vaccine; in a gap in my roster and with my mask with a filter, on a high speed train from Exeter. As it happens; I caught the only high speed train that went from the south west that weekend... or going back, but more on that later.
I had gone 63 days without a hug, beating my last record by 40 days; and getting to the point where I didn’t really notice it anymore. My next of kin here; a friend from my second year at Uni, lives with her husband and three kids in a sourdough* paradise in south London in Eltham. Like the Eltham in Taranaki, I experienced vast amounts of most excellent cheese. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eltham,_New_Zealand).
(*KD's sourdough starter is from 2015, pre lockdown. She is well practiced and makes a good loaf.)
Just being able to do a greeting hug; felt like such a relief- but somehow also tentative and unfamiliar. Sitting and talking almost non-stop with the grown ups, I’d find now and again, one of the kids, crawling up onto the bench seat or couch beside me, light as a feather, wanting a hug too.
Their oldest, was like a shadow, enthralled by adult conversation, which I confess consisted of all the things I found boring when I was young: house prices, budgeting, applying for leave, commuting, weather and work and covid.
I reckon they should make a family band called The Runcible Spoons- The owl and the pussy cat had been a part of their wedding vows (https://poets.org/poem/owl-and-pussy-cat), and between them they can play the bass guitar(Dad), clarinet (Mum), violin (miss 7) piano (miss 5) and percussion with any object against another object (Mr 3). It wasn’t in the name of lockdown over achievement - just for the love of it.
We drank damson plum brandy from AD’s tree in the back yard (he also has a four foot apple tree, grown from a seed from one afternoon when his toddler thrust an apple core in his hand and asked him to grow a tree.) and while affected by this I booked my bus home.
I got the right bus, one of the last tickets- a seven hour trip all up - but had entered the wrong email address when paying for it.
We were halfway through a picnic in the sun the next day when I went to check the time for my bus on email on my phone and panicked that the ticket hadn’t come through (and payment was still pending on my account). The picnic was scooped up- with literal tears from the oldest who had bought balls to roll down the hill especially to show me, and we headed home to the computer to find the booking screen still up.
I had missed an “s” from my email address. I still feel like an idiot about that.
We got the ticket sorted another way. A relief; but prior to that, my kind friends had concocted a mad plan to drive me back, with a kid in the back seat— an adventure, a road trip, a chance for more conversations, possibly seeing Stonehenge from the A30, but not to dwell too long... it was almost a disappointment to find the crisis averted.
London looks forlorn at the moment- I was last there in 2014 and somehow Victoria station felt smaller- I remember having to catch the right flow in the crowds to find a way to the underground every morning when I commuted; pressed on every side. I was there in winter; at times a bitter wind would howl through. If someone dropped something, or someone was a lost tourist then, the fast crowd would flow around them, like a river over a rock. I loved how it worked; every day I would see some kind of collective kindness; someone picking up a wallet to help, or stepping out of the flow for a moment to give directions. It gave me hope in humanity that everyday in such masses I could see kindness; and rarely; incredibly rarely, saw meanness.
In spring, in 2021, people were there, masked and languid. Leaning against closed metal roll down doors, hovering over spots indicating where to stand to keep 2m distance. It was a warm morning. Three trains an hour leaving. Empty tube stations. Buckets collecting rain from the roof (although in fairness I remember them being present before; another obstacle the human current would negotiate).
I know things are going to kick off again; London’s mojo is never far from the surface, and I’m more optimistic that it will be safe (while my colleagues in London speak openly of an expectation of the third wave...). That a city like London has managed to shut down for so long is testament again to the everyday collective kindnesses of the place.
Hugs were never actually illegal; but people gave them up for strangers. For a much longer time than I did.
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