Sociability is the new anti-sociability.

I made that up. During the coronavirus epidemic, pandemic, crisis and… bad thing. And it was bad because we all had to lock down, isolate and cross the street to avoid people who might have been smelly, but you just can’t tell from 2 metres away. Or who might have been lovely, but you’ll never know, having offended them deeply by crossing the street to avoid them. We were forced, as an entire nation, to be completely anti-social. We weren’t allowed to talk to anyone, but were encouraged to eat and drink as much as we liked. So next year’s obesity pandemic will be a good one, possibly our best so far.

Then last weekend it all ended. Not the entire ‘lockdown’ thing, but we were allowed to meet up with people ‘of another household’!!! Like, ‘from another planet!!!’ So we did. We went out for ‘supper’. A meal I haven’t in fact eaten since 1971, but if you call it ‘dinner’ then you imagine lots of courses, silver service, possibly waiters and a butler, three different wines and petit fours. So ‘supper’ is informal, light, easy, nibbly, and perfect for the garden, which is the ONLY PLACE YOU CAN LEGALLY MEET!!!! No greeting hugs or kisses, no groping, no physical contact. And no-one allowed to drink the wine directly out of the bottle. Unless they’re wearing rubber gloves.

And that worked really well. We did 4 in 4 days, home and away, loosely abiding by at least one of the rules. The one that says ‘no exchange of bloods or any other bodily fluids’. Which was a shame as that’s normally my favourite thing.

And then came Wednesday. Ahhhh, Wednesday. Our first ‘garden supper’ in the freezing cold/almost raining. Shifting the whole supper narrative from ‘I hope the Camembert doesn’t completely melt in this heat, to ‘I hope I don’t die of hypothermia whilst eating grapes’. And if I did, would that be a ‘Coronavirus related death’???

Last night we went again for the scheduled ‘garden supper’. It was horrible. Cold, wet, pissing down, horrid. We cut the pretence. Went inside. Set up a table with ‘them’ and ‘us’ ends, wore our masks whilst eating, drank with visors on, through straws, passed the wine bottle using disinfectant wipes, sprayed ourselves down with detol after each course…

We just, kind’a, sort of… had dinner. And it felt good. It felt different. It felt… sociable. Even a bit illicit. Like when someone at in normal times suddenly produces a gram of raw heroin and three hookers after the meal. Oh, ok, maybe not that illicit. But it felt nice.

Happy birthday to the mother of my incredible grandchildren.

A xxxx