My J and H keys have been sanitised to death, the reduced seating is full and my anxiety levels are sky high
It’s the same every time. I spend months looking forward to my summer holidays, only to find that the positive effects of being away have worn off within a few days of getting home.
This article titled “Digested week: I’m back in the office after six months and it’s not going well” was written by John Crace, for The Guardian on Friday 11th September 2020 10.26 UTCMonday
It’s the same every time. I spend months looking forward to my summer holidays, only to find that the positive effects of being away have worn off within a few days of getting home. This year was no exception, not helped by the government’s decision to end recess a week early, which meant I had to work for the last three days of our second improvised holiday with close friends in Norfolk. Having to leave everyone on Holkham beach on a rare sunny day to get back in time to watch a Matt Hancock statement was not exactly my idea of a fun day out. As it was, it took me the best part of the week to wind down and by the time I felt vaguely relaxed we were packing to go home. It was too cold to swim this time – at least for me, others were rather more brave – but we did get some lovely walks in along the coast. By about day five of the holiday, the dog – who generally never turns down a walk – was completely knackered and pleading for a bit of personal time. As the others went off to see the Anish Kapoor exhibition at Houghton Hall, Herbie stayed behind with me to watch prime minister’s questions. I’ve never much liked the end of summer at the best of times – the nights closing in never fail to lower my mood – but this year has been more difficult than most because I feel cheated of seeing my daughter, who remains out of reach in Minneapolis. I know other people have had to endure far worse during the coronavirus pandemic, but I do miss her dreadfully. It was early December last year that I last saw her and who knows when quarantine-free travel between the US and the UK will resume? I feel so proud of the woman she has become: someone capable of making a life with a man she loves in a foreign country. But part of me can’t help wishing we had brought her up to be just a little less independent.
Tuesday
For about half an hour, Brandon Lewis, the Northern Ireland secretary, just about held it together by giving non-committal answers to MPs – something he generally does quite well, as his whole career has been built on him not knowing very much about anything – during an urgent question on the government’s proposals to amend the Brexit withdrawal agreement. But then, in an answer to a direct question from the Tory Bob Neill, Lewis cracked and admitted that the government was planning to break international law, though only in a specific and limited way. Much like a shoplifter agreeing to steal only during an agreed 20-minute time slot each day. At which point all hell broke loose, with senior members of the government – including the prime minister – saying the deal they had negotiated last year, which they had insisted was “oven ready” and on which they had fought and won a general election campaign, had never actually been that good a deal and they had always planned on changing it anyway. The deal on the Northern Ireland protocol, which we had been assured was in place specifically to protect the Good Friday agreement, was now being held up as a dealbreaker that actively undermined the Northern Ireland peace process. It was the kind of U-turn that not even The Thick of It would have dared come up with, and if any other country had pulled off such a stunt we would be accusing it of being a rogue state. Something two other former Tory prime ministers were now doing. To add to the sense of the surreal, Boris Johnson talked of imposing fines for anyone who broke the law on social distancing just hours after he had declared his disregard for international law. Watch this space …
Wednesday
Five years ago I spent two weeks in hospital having surgery on an infected knee replacement – entirely my own fault, not the consultant’s – and being hooked up to an antibiotic drip four times a day. By the time I was discharged, I realised I had become totally institutionalised as I found almost everything about being at home terrifying. Much the same thing appears to have happened to me in lockdown. After the best part of six months away from Westminster, I decided it was time to obey the government’s instructions to “get back to work” and to go into the office for the first time. It wasn’t a huge success. The journey in wasn’t too bad – I’m quite happy in a mask and there was only one other person on the bus – but once I reached Westminster, I began to feel totally alienated. It was as if everything was just the same, yet somehow entirely different. After making it up to the third-floor office, I tried to log in to my computer. This proved impossible as neither the J nor the H keys were working – a distinct disadvantage when your name is John. I think someone must have over-sanitised the keyboard in my absence. Luckily I had brought my laptop as backup. I then went down to watch PMQs only to be refused admission as all the allocated socially distanced seating had been taken, so I rushed back upstairs to watch proceedings on TV. By now my anxiety levels were sky high and I could feel a panic attack coming on. So after PMQs were over, I picked up my post – thank you to all those readers who had sent me letters, Spurs programmes and offered to make pots, I am so touched by your kindness – and scuttled home. Where I promptly burst into tears before writing the sketch. But I’m determined not to be beaten. Things will get better and I will go into the office again before long.
Thursday
The more neurotic I become, the more unthreatening my choice of TV viewing seems to be. There’s only so much excitement in the day I can manage. I wrote some weeks ago about how I had come to love Devon and Cornwall, a programme in which not very much seemed to happen to nice people living in the West Country. Since that series ended, my new favourite is BBC Two’s This Farming Life, which follows various small farmers through the year in Scotland and the north of England. As with Devon and Cornwall, the farmers are all utterly charming, though my favourite characters are the vast array of sheepdogs. I can’t help feeling that if the BBC were to bring back One Man (or One Woman) and Their Dog, they would have a huge hit on their hands. Needless to say, I’ve also caught up with all of the first six episodes of All or Nothing, Amazon Prime’s documentary of Spurs’ last season. It came billed as an insider “fly-on-the-wall” film, though the fly appears to be a very different one to that most fans will have remembered. For a start, Mauricio Pochettino – the manager for more than five years, who had taken the club to a Champions League final and was expected to be in charge throughout the series – barely got a mention and was written out with no explanation halfway through the first episode. Then we had the chairman, Daniel Levy – generally accepted as one of the most difficult people to do business with in English football – portrayed as sweetness and light throughout, with no tough questions asked about his transfer policy. The rest has just been the José Mourinho show, with the most telling revelation being that his pre-match talks are no different to the ones my son’s under-13 team were given by its self-appointed coach more than 12 years ago. “Get out there and fight for the ball. Be aggressive. We need the three points. Blah, blah.” It’s Spurs, Jim, though not as we know it.
Friday
One of the many things I’ve missed during the lockdown has been literary festivals. Some writers hate the switch from an activity that is fundamentally solitary to one that demands they perform in front of hundreds of people, but they’ve always been a highlight for me. I love the chance to meet and spend time with people who enjoy talking about literature, ideas and politics, rather than feeling that I am writing into a void. Some festivals have managed to improvise with online events, but most have had to go into hibernation for the duration. So I am thrilled to say that for this weekend the Wimbledon literary festival has found a way of going properly live, just days before the new lockdown regulations would probably have made it impossible. Audience members will be seated around tables in socially distanced bubbles and the sides of the tent have been removed to improve air circulation. I must remember to wrap up warm. It will also be a total pleasure for me tonight to get to meet for the first time and talk to Andy Hamilton, one of my all-time comedy heroes, about his new satirical novel, Long Hand – a book that does what it says on the jacket, in that it is actually written as a manuscript. It takes a few pages to get used to the format, but once your eyes have adjusted it’s like reading a handwritten letter. Which in essence is exactly what the book is. I won’t spoil the story but it’s also everything you would expect from Andy – funny, touching and clever – and I can’t recommend it too highly. I will also this weekend get to see my mother in her care home for the second time since March, so things are looking up for a few days at least. Not words I often write.
Digested week, digested: “I fought the law and the law won.”
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