On Welly Wangling

There are delays on the Northern line. A neutered commuter in a NASA sweatshirt reminds me of the Agency’s ambitions to build a robot moon railway. I’m late but can’t call the school because there’s no phone signal. This kind of thing won’t happen when the moon’s up and running. You can always get a signal there.

When I reach him my seven-year-old tells me he doesn’t like life in the city. I’m still a little tense.  “You’re not in the city, darling. This is Hampstead.”

I blame my father for their happy half term. They loved the village fête he organised. Everything cost a pound. “Have another go!” I insisted, as my boys’ efforts to throw a welly landed at their feet. “Hit the coconut!” I cheered, as they missed. “Splat that Rat!” I shrieked, as another pound fell from my fingertips. I scrambled for cash in pockets filled with (enthusiastically purchased) broken boat miniatures. I needed a gin. That cost seven. 

I can spend cash faster than an NGO. But it’s ok. Everyone has a card machine now. I had another go at welly wangling. My effort crashed in a bush. That boot will fly further when I play in space. The trouble is children have autonomy in the countryside. If they choose to watch a dog show in a blazer and tie, people notice, and compliment their style. It gives them ideas. 

Underground my little one sings Round the Apple Tree in the rush hour crush. With each twirl he headbutts the same woman’s Prada handbag. Her knuckles are white. Everyone is wearing trainers. Ready to run with the crowd at a moment’s notice. I like the city. But I’m beginning to doubt its personality. Between a stretched earlobe and a neck tattoo sits a man in a mask and face visor. Maybe he’s been listening to Gordon Brown, “No one is safe anywhere until everyone is safe everywhere,” (a terrifyingly megalomaniacal absurdity even from the flabby lips of a man who can’t swallow his own spit) “the world doesn’t know how dangerous the next pandemic is going to be… blah blah blah… sniffle snuffle snivel… but there is going to be one” Etc. I can’t decide if it’s the fragmentation of the metropolis that makes mass man susceptible to supranational narratives, or simple slack jawed somnambulism. 

My father has no interest in the WHO. He can’t conceive that the Browns and Sunaks are promoted out of national politics because he loves his country. When his country moved in lockstep with every other country, that only confirmed we were moving in the right direction. 

I was still stunned to learn he’s had seven Covid shots. Seven! That’s one giant leap from a single “safe and effective” dose. He figures he’s had every variant going. As far as he’s concerned they worked. They also let him go on holiday. 

His friend is booked in for another. “I only took one of the dangerous ones,” he remarked. “They’re all dangerous,” I spluttered, “which one do you imagine is the dangerous one?” He couldn’t remember and muttered something about smallpox. 

Their good faith is unassailable. They believe in the moon, monarchy and medicine. But the most absurd idea they seem to have bought is that the will to Empire died with the British. They’ve forgotten princes always lord it over peasants. Maybe we’ve all lost our healthy suspicion of the powerful because they flattered us into believing we’re not the peasants. 

I think back to Brown, “maybe it’s already begun”. Excess death and vaccination is established but the branding of the parts has left “the vaccine” untouched. We’ve seen a pandemic sold without anything happening at all, but how will the faithful behave if they notice they’re dying? Will they be cross, or grateful to blame congregating blue tits for their own errors of judgment?

The village is too trusting and the city too confused. We scramble off the tube at Euston. We have a problem. I look at my laughing sons, and ask myself, again, where is the best place to be, for round two?