The Discomfort of Going Into Central London during National Lockdown
By: Trina Yau
Tags: Covid, London, Lockdown, Thoughts, Personal

It was a day like any other in my friend’s Zone 3 flat. The sky was not grey and pissing it down with rain when I forced my dog out on her morning walk, but an exceptionally clear blue that could lift the spirit of the most curmudgeonly Londoner in our third national lockdown. This fleeting happiness fled when I realised I had to go into Central London later today for a blood test. This was an unwelcome event which filled me with as much horror as when Boris announced that the UK’s new variant of COVID-19 could be a tad more deadly than we first thought.

Nevertheless, I paid for this blood test with my own money, so I had to attend, or I would never financially recover from this (I have been using this phrase since March for everything from the purchase of a single Freddo to a surprise £600 vet bill). My doctor had also told me she legally could not prescribe my drug without the test, which deemed the test both essential and unfortunately unavoidable.

Since I am British, I have trust issues when it comes to the weather. I reluctantly put on my best waterproof puffer jacket, donned boots with the chunky sole every 20-something girl seems to own and covered my face with the mask my friend’s family in Hong Kong had sent early on last year when masks were scarce and unobtainable. It was a testament to how little she had gone out, after being furloughed from her restaurant job.

Pulling into London Victoria station on an overground train felt so surreal that I might as well have come from outer space, or somewhere even further like Leeds or Bognor Regis. Real people, who weren’t on a screen? Walking around in our ‘outside’ clothes and not just a smart top and joggers on rotation? Looking at the people walking around in the station, I suddenly felt homesick in my own country for a time long past.

“There were so many people on the train,” complained my friend, who had joined me to do some essential grocery shopping. (We had run out of genmaicha. Also I was worried I would feel sick after the test.)

“There were literally two other people in our half of the carriage, sitting in the row in front and behind,” I couldn’t help but point out.

“Exactly. Far too many,” she said crossly.

A year ago, we would have been packed standing up with other commuters in the morning rush and gotten sneezed on at least three times and elbowed in the face twice. Now, even the thought of people sharing the same row of seats as us was unthinkable, more than a faux pas but an actual threat to our lives. A year ago, going into Central would have been just another weekday trudge to the office, something I did with my eyes closed while someone probably sneezed on me.

Another thing I noticed was the omnipresent hand-sanitising device situated right after every door of every building I have entered after March, like an unwelcome and overenthusiastic bouncer. I stepped right up to it and superciliously squirted a generous amount of hand gel as if to reassure the clinic receptionist that I too was a member of this exclusive COVID-smart group who wore masks and did not attend 15-people parties. I immediately regretted it because of the lube-y feeling on my hands and the 100% ethanol smell which marked this particular clinic’s hand gel as what the cool kids would call ‘meme tier’. Incidentally, the best ones are the fast-drying kind with a pleasant, inoffensive smell. The blood test went fine, by the way.

Yes, London was different, now. I felt too tight in my skin as I passed by yet another darkened restaurant and ‘non-essential’ shop, all with the same white notice pasted on their doors: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO THE GOVERNMENT’S COVID-19 GUIDELINES. Popular spots on Shaftesbury Avenue which used to command lines around the block were all quiet, save for the few lucky open ones with bored Deliverooown drivers waiting outside. What would be left for them after COVID? After Brexit? What would be left for the rest of us?

“This genmaicha is way too expensive,” I bitched quietly under my breath to my friend as we browed the discount section at an independent Japanese store which incidentally has an excellent whiskey selection (you know the one).

My friend tutted at me. “We have to support small businesses, Trina,” she said patronisingly.

“We shop at Aldi,” I pointed out, firmly putting the tea back. “I think we’ve got to support ourselves first.”

Of course there are theories on what the future will bring. One of my most favourite theories is by social epidemiologist Dr. Nicholas Christakis: the Roaring 20s. He envisions buzzing nightclubs, packed gigs and a flourishing arts scene. I’m not a religious person but the thought has me on my knees praying to whatever nebulous and fickle God(s) exist above to make it come true. The one thing I have learnt during this lockdown is that art heals: the wounded and fearful spirit who cowers from the dreadful unknown. People in my circle have either turned to art in the form of beautifully illustrated bullet journals, music and baking this lockdown or pure unadulterated stage-an-intervention alcoholism. Art heals, and as a society we are going to need lots and lots of it.

The other theory is that it will be absolute shit, students graduating will be left behind and unable to find jobs in their industries as the economy struggles just like the last 2008 recession. Prices could skyrocket as a result of Brexit killing pretty much every industry that trades with the EU, and none of us will be able to afford to live, whether we are ‘essential’ or not. At least we’ll finally be able to get off our faces together in person rather than over Zoom I guess? And I never have to look another bloody banana bread in the eye ever again.

Look, it’s not all doom and gloom. There are some bright spots in the dark horizon — the UK’s R number has gone down to somewhere between 0.8 and 1, it was announced today, which means the national lockdown is working and fewer people are getting infected. Vaccines are being steamrolled out to vulnerable groups. UK University fees, which are incidentally the first or second highest globally, are being frozen for another year. Every student can still pay £9,245 for the privilege of teaching themselves their entire syllabus using Khan Academy. Alright, I’m not good at looking at the positive side of things. In school, they said we had to put an argument for and against something, so okay— Here it is.

Central London is a city on pause, with shuttered skyscraper offices and deserted retail units with dark windows broken up by an optimistic pop-up here or there. For essential workers, going into the City to do their important work is just another day. But for WFH-exiles like me, the City has lost its soul. Perhaps pieces of it have scattered into each one of us, waiting for the day we come back together and breathe the city back to life.