Author: Ali April 10, 2020

I once read that writing a blog is like shouting into the void. You don't know if it's echoing off bare rock or whether someone is out there. And maybe I'm just writing this to my future self. When I read it back, I'll be sub-editing in my head obviously (use of commas?!), but also recalling times and feelings that my inefficient brain has since archived.

Two weeks ago, I had the same feeling about clapping for carers and the NHS. Interesting idea on social media but it it going to take off? Will I stand on my front doorstep applauding whilst the locals think 'her at number 16 has finally lost it'?

Back then (14 days ago in a previous epoch), it was dark at 8pm, before the clocks went forwards or backwards or something (but we still woke up at home yet again). Watching Channel 4 News they mentioned it and I thought 'let's give it a go'.

I was heartened to hear other clapping in the darkness, saw shadows down the street lift their hands in my direction, acknowledging each other.

Back then it was for the NHS, for doctors and nurses in ICUs caring for the sickest. And for other carers who - by looking after the most vulnerable - were letting the ICUs do their job.

Week two and the world had moved on a little. Clap for Boris they said - the Churchillian war hero against pandemics. Now I don't know this for sure but I don't know anyone who clapped then. I suppose I'll get round to talking about what happened next eventually - how he got ill, how there have been endless debates about whether the governement responded quickly enough at the start - but back then, no. I can find the odd video of young Conservatives cheering in Richmond but definitely not here.

On the second Thursday of clapping for carers, I'd lost what day it was. It was only the curious sight and sound of fireworks that made me think 'was that tonight?'

The war analogies continued though. Nurses are 'the front line' and people who are ill must 'fight' the virus. There's a significant Twitter backlash against this, which I've heard previously from cancer patients. If you get very ill or die, it isn't because your fighting-back skills have let you down. Sometimes shit happens.

My friend - who's a nurse - also worries that there's pressure on NHS workers to go to war.

We'll all kiss them goodbye at the station into whatever horrors and risks await them, whilst we crouch behind dark curtains, head in hands.

Week three and there's a few more out on the street. Neighbours on one side are clapping very enthusiastically. Neighbour on the other side has had his fair share of time with the NHS over the last year so he already knows what a great job they do about a lot more than this virus.

A car screams down our 20-mile-an-hour street, lights flashing, horn going, front seat passenger clapping furiously out of the window. There's always someone wants to raise the stakes of the game. Unless they were on their way for essential groceries of course...

As we quietly walk back inside, I'm wondering how many weeks we'll keep clapping. Time is not so much marching on, as ambling - kicking the odd stone down the street, as if to say, nothing to see here for a good while yet.

Picture thanks to Imperial War Museum.