Strange days. As a long-term blogger I feel that I ought to have something smart and apposite to say about events in the Ukraine, but instead I feel like I’m taking the evening air on Horsell Common. Since Putin doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d trigger something of this magnitude without some sort of plan, the worry is, of course, what comes next.
That worry is not lessened by the shower of corrupt incompetents that currently comprise the UK Government – for the avoidance of doubt I detest every last one of them. The one tool that we have at our disposal – hitting the Russian money-laundering via the City of London – is the one thing that our present regime will not do because of their own complicity in the whole sordid business. The useless Liz Truss squirming on the TV this morning when quizzed about Russian donations to the Tories is a signifier of that. I’m old enough to remember when the Kremlin contented itself with bunging cash to trade unions and protest movements: I wonder what bright spark in the Kremlin figured out that funding the brain-dead automata of the Right would be more fruitful.
Anyway, there’s nowt I can do about it but watch everyone go about their daily business as though nothing was happening and Mars wasn’t looking a bit funny, and thereby gain a greater appreciation of those novels written prior to 1914 and 1939 that show no awareness of what was to befall Europe.
On the other hand, all current indications are that the world is tracking the worst-case predictions for climate change, so maybe it doesn’t matter much in the long run.
Several times, while I kept my Covid-19 diary here, I wrote that the pandemic was small fry compared to climate change. A month ago, more or less, I wrote:
Covid continues, and builds momentum, while politicians flounder in their own ineptitude, but it is the change in climate that’s the big picture, a process of change that I think is now irreversible. I keep up to date with news and views on climate change in the popular science press, and I know the view continues to be expressed that there’s still time to change course. But all the things that are said to be essential to do rely for their implementation on co-ordinated, decisive action by politicians and on the majority of humans ‘doing the right thing’.
The thing is, I have no faith that politicians in particular or humans in general will do anything at all of significance. Short of some volcanic cataclysm, the future is here and it’s already too late. The Moon is getting in on the act, too, sleekit wee bastard that it is.
What else is there to do but to sit here writing dystopian fiction?
The tendency towards catastrophism is, on the whole, something to be avoided, because it becomes so dominant an interpretive framework as to distort deeper awareness of the world about us. But, given the new IPCC report published yesterday, the urge to catastrophise is strong today. And for good reason. I found myself this morning drinking green tea and scanning the key points of the IPCC Report (New Scientist Summary here) while listening to an 8 1/2 Spotify playlist I put together of different versions of Dark Star: it formed the perfect accompaniment, particularly the earlier, primal versions. A link to the playlist is down below for the (very) few of you who might be interested.
More useful, and more difficult, than catastrophising is figuring out consequences and mitigations. Some examples:
(1) We live in a house built in 1933. While the Scottish weather is variable, a shift to extremes of heat and wetness is likely to be problematic. Most of July was very pleasant here, but the last few days have seen heavy, and at times torrential, rain. Heavy rain isn’t uncommon in Edinburgh at Festival time any more than it is at Wimbledon. Occasional floods aren’t unknown either, and a lot of money was spent on flood defences after the Water of Leith burst its banks several years ago. What has changed is frequency: we’ve had floods at the foot of our hill every year for the past three. This is partly because of sudden quantities of water falling in a short time but also because the old drains can’t cope with the amount of water coming off the hill. And with no natural drainage, the road and shops become a giant concrete culvert.
Our back garden is much more prone to saturation than previously, and I think changes in the water table are implicated in that (and in the dampness of the soil in the void beneath our floorboards). Will this lead to structural problems with the house? I don’t know.
(2) One of our daughters lives in the USA and, of course, we like to see her in person rather than over a video call. However, that, currently, means flying and the airline industry is going to have to change quickly and dramatically, particularly in its reliance on fossil fuels. I know alternative engines are being in tested, but scaling up to retrofit every fleet? That’s quite a task. So how easy will it be to get a flight? And will we be able to afford it? Or perhaps ocean liners will come back into fashion, with all their problems. And I’m not sure I’d fancy being at sea in the North Atlantic in years to come anyway, because—
(3) The UK relies on the gulfstream (the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation or AMOC to its friends) for its climate, and it is also part of the broader global system. It has been threatened with disruption for years, but now looks to be on the brink. What will that mean? I don’t know, but I doubt it will be good.
(4) Fire, flood, drought and plague lead to conflict, population movement, resource shortages and more disease. Where will all the displaced people go? And how will they be fed and watered?
There’s more, of course, such as global logistics and food supplies, but that’s off the top of my head.
All of the causes for (relative) optimism rely on concerted political will, and I don’t expect that to happen until it is much too late. Oddly, the response to the pandemic, at least in the West, suggests a positive in that, on the whole, populations responded to the bigger picture, notwithstanding the dingbats who make the news headlines. A more permanent shift to working from home may well bring benefits, too. (I’m still sceptical that, worldwide, there will be sufficient change, though). The bad news is that an appropriate response by governments to climate change will require an awful lot more than mask mandates. Expect to see more protests which, given point 4 above, may well turn nasty.
No doubt I’ll write more about this here when I think it through some more. Until then, back to dystopian fiction and dark stars crashing it is.
I saw the other day that a forward-thinking/opportunistic historian in the US is encouraging people to keep diaries over the coming weeks, noting daily life going on around them. Unfortunately I can’t find a link to it right now (I’ll add it if I find it). The suggestion was to use pen and paper if possible; I understand why but I’m going to use this blog to the same purpose, though I’m not sure how frequently I’ll post: unless anything dramatic happens it would be a bit samey day to day.
***
There’s something of a ‘phony war’ feeling right now. I’m certain it doesn’t feel like that at the sharp end, but it does for me, in this house, in this street. No doubt that will end the moment it gets closer to home.
I am acutely conscious that we are in a privileged position. The house is large enough for three of us to bounce around in and, because I’m retired, I don’t have issues relating to work. Financially, we’re not immediately vulnerable as we have enough in the bank to tap into if it became necessary.
We haven’t stockpiled, but we do have sufficient, not least because we were quietly preparing for Brexit impacts on the supply chain. I don’t mean large-scale panic hoarding, just getting an extra tin of beans or soup with the weekly shop and putting them aside. I’m quite able to make my own bread and I have enough flour and yeast on hand to manage for a couple of weeks if there are supply problems with sliced bread at the local supermarket. I noticed on Thursday and Friday that stocks of bread flour and yeast were down to zero in two stores, so I guess lots of people have the same idea.
That all sounds like ‘I’m alright Jack’ but that’s not what I mean; it’s an acknowledgement rather than a boast. The virus is no respecter of privilege.
Speaking with neighbours, from the safe distance that we’re all ruefully keeping, everyone seems to feel the same. We have all seen the news from Italy and are well aware that the next period is going to be difficult. So far, everyone I’ve spoken to has been quite phlegmatic about it, though one or two have been fatalistic. This real world response is not the same as–and much more rational than–the online world.
*
I mentioned Twitter in my last post, and I’ve since taken fairly ruthless action there. I’ve unfollowed, muted or blocked a significant number of accounts that are getting exciteable and unhelpful. This includes accounts that are still indulging in political point scoring or, in my view, actively seeking to undermine what the government (UK and Scotland) is trying to do.
The last needs some unpacking I think.
I am not an expert on any subject relevant to strategic responses to a widespread outbreak of a virus to which humans have no resistance. I have not the foggiest idea whether the government’s response is the ‘right’ one or not. But I’ve seen an awful lot of comment, some ‘expert’, most not, that looks to me like councils of perfection, questioning and whatabout-ing everything in the name of the hypothetical rather than the very real situation that people are, in good faith, trying to address. None of these, that I have seen at any rate, have seriously grappled with the notion that there might not be a ‘perfect’ response or, if there is, that it might only become clear in retrospect. I suspect that the UK/Scottish government response is as good and as bad as any other. And no, I don’t think Boris wants to cull the elderly and vulnerable
This isn’t helped by thoughtless headlines from journalists looking for the next Exclusive/Breaking/Latest story and publishing without, apparently, any thought for the consequences.
We are a free society and people are free to say and write what they want, just as I am free to invite them to STFU, but in any event I am under no obligation to read or listen to them. This is not the same as sticking my fingers in my ears and singing la-la-la-la, it’s about focusing on what I need to know so that my family, vulnerable relatives and I can stay as safe as is realistically feasible. The time for analysis and response will come, but it is not now.
*
More personally: back in the days when I was running, it became second nature to monitor every twinge and ache in my body, assessing whether it was something that could be ignored and run through or something to take more seriously, Something of the same is happening now. I’m 60 with underlying hypertension, and have become acutely aware of every sneeze and snuffle, every vague feeling of discomfort that might be a headache, every cough.
I’ve always been sinusy, and all the symptoms I’ve experienced all of my adult life are now things to be interrogated for ulterior meaning. Am I tired and lethargic because I’m stuffed up and haven’t had enough sleep, or because I’m coming down with something?
Most especially, I’ve become aware of a constant, low-level anxiety. I’m trying to address that through relaxation techniques, but it never quite goes away.
In the meantime I have made a start on the new Hilary Mantel, I’ve been keeping up the 1970 music pages, and I’ve been watching TV online. Westworld is back tonight. Star Trek Picard has been patchy but steadily improving. Season 2 of Altered Carbon was stronger in the second half of its run. I’ve just discovered Devs, and have really enjoyed the first three episodes. For All Mankind series 1 was excellent.
And I have my own writing, which I’ve been neglecting and really ought to revive.
There are 50 houses on our street, some single occupancy, one or two with young with families, so lets say 100 people live here. There is an age range, but most of us are 50+ and there’s a good number of pensioners, meaning the age profile of our street is skewed towards parents with grown up children and grandparents.
Numbers are mutable things depending on context, but it seems reasonable to assume that as many as 80 of us on the street could contract Covid-19. Maybe some of us already have but haven’t realised it yet. Given the age range, of those 80, there’s a chance anywhere between 5 and 20 people from this street will end up in ICU and some of us will die.
In his press conference yesterday, the Prime Minister said:
I must level with you, level with the British public, many more families are going to lose loved ones before their time.
For all his blather and bluster and general awfulness, that statement, apparently off the cuff but probably rehearsed, was important. Its importance isn’t just that it is true and honest and clear, but also because it speaks a truth that is unspoken in that British way, and is a source of fear. I don’t especially want to die; I don’t want my family and friends to die. Given that mortality is part of the human condition, when the time comes I want it to be well in the future. I don’t want it to come hooked up to a ventilator operated by tired and harrassed medics.
So in this context I look to see what’s happening in the world and my main sources for that are the TV/Radio news and the internet. Which brings us to Twitter.
At the moment my Twitter timeline is full of people squabbling about whether this or that advice is right, whether it would be better or worse to do x or y, about whether the First Minister should or should not have had her medical advisors in camera shot with her, etc., etc. I don’t care; none of that is important to me in the slightest right now. What I want to know is what we should we do and what should we not do to protect ourselves and our family and friends as best we can in what we all know is going to be a hard few months.
So I’m going to keep my Twitter feed open, because it is still an excellent source of news and information, but I’ve already begun to be ruthless in muting or cutting out anything that isn’t actively diverting, entertaining or helpful.
Act like you’re infected, not avoiding infection. Wash your hands like you don’t want to transmit it. Think about your contacts – do you want to infect them? Our fight, our responsibility
The only thing I would add to that is that it’s OK to talk about your fears: we all share them.
Kirstin commented a couple of times that I’m taking Covid-19 more seriously than she expected, because I’m usually more chilled/blasé about things, and that’s fair comment. It could be a function of keeping my eye on a couple of Twitter lists of people who have some idea of what they’re talking about, and constant repetition of alarming news generating its own fears.
But I don’t think so. Kirstin is correct: I am definitely taking it very seriously.
I understand why there is emphasis (and perhaps morbid fascination) with horror stories and horrific tales of how Italy has been overwhelmed, but I also know the likelihood is that most of us who get it will not end up in intensive care. I’m still looking for a good dispassionate information source. One of the features of the current situation is that there’s a lot of data but not so much information: it’s the old noise:signal thing. Graphs and charts and epidemiological data are all cool, but don’t convey things as simply as wash your hands and keep your distance from other people.
As my mind wandered while pondering some of this stuff, I thought of Susan Sontag’s AIDS And It’s Metaphors and her earlier Illness as Metaphor. I’ve mentioned the former of those before here. Her general thesis is that
the metaphors used when discussing something are revealing when looked at closely. In the case of AIDS (and, earlier, cancer), she considered how the metaphors stigmatised both disease and patient, often using language which implicitly offered moral criticism of the person with the condition. She also discussed the widespread use of military terminology and concepts when discussing the “fight” against disease.
There’s a lot of that going on right now: discussing Covid-19 using military metaphors. I understand why that is, and that the metaphors are so emedded in our thought and language that they’re difficult to dislodge, but I suspect other ways of thinking might be more appropriate when framing a response. I’m still thinking about this though.
Also, although I hope this fizzles out, I suspect it won’t and we’re in for quite severe restrictions on movement here. At some point we’ll look back at all the things that were stopping that decision being made and wish the decision had been made sooner.
Still, it’s handy that I’m at home most of the time so I can settle into social distancing to do my bit to flatten the curve (how quickly the jargon of the day creeps onto the tongue). On the plus side I have a huge to be read pile to keep me going, starting with the latest Hilary Mantel. On the down side, I dipped into daytime TV for the first time in months, if not years, and boy is it shite.
I wrote on 15 February that an old friend of mine died. Colin’s body was found near his flat and a post mortem was inconclusive. His funeral is tomorrow and I planned to attend. I’ve decided not to; in the present circumstances I think a journey there and back involving four buses or trains full of snuffling people is not a sensible one.
Over-reaction? Only time will tell, but looking at what is happening in Italy, which has just, as I’ve been writing, announced a complete national lockdown, I’m not willing to take the risk.
Recent Comments