I wonder if, years from now, we’ll look back at this time and marvel at how strange it was – the masks and the social distancing, the working from home, the going on furlough or losing your job, the fear of the outside, of what could happen, because nothing like this had ever happened. The isolation, the loneliness, the unimaginable loss. Or will our lives, years from now, be largely the same, so it won’t make sense to dwell on “how things were”? Many restrictions were removed in England on Monday July 19, so-called freedom day. But as cases remain high, it feels like nothing has changed at all.
Ben Jackson
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On the road again
Becoming emotionally attached to a football club is a risky game. They can let you down. They can be mismanaged. They can fail.
Bolton Wanderers, the football club I’ve supported all my life, nearly failed in 2019. Employees were forced to use food banks because they weren’t paid. The business fell into administration and the club was deducted points, which led to our relegation from League One. It was a devastating fall from grace for a club that once competed in the Premier League and challenged in Europe.
A lot has happened since that failure. A new owner was found and the club survived. And on Saturday I found myself taking a Tube, train and bus to Crawley to my first Bolton match in too long — not to watch from inside the ground, as Covid restrictions were still in place, but to cheer from the outside with about a dozen fellow Bolton fans, none of whom I knew yet.
When Bolton won promotion from League Two on Saturday, we celebrated with the players as they joined us outside at full-time.
It’s a risky game but when things go well, it’s a towering feeling.
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Night walks
There are people in the distance. For a few seconds I can’t tell which direction they’re walking in — towards me or away. I’m often the first to cross the road to avoid proximity. If we’re going in the same direction and I begin to catch up with them, I’ll slow down. Not necessarily because of Covid; I just don’t want to be seen when I’m on my night walks.
Every night after work I pound the pavements in my bubble in north London like a flâneur. Work tends to finish around midnight. This is my latest lockdown obsession.
Sometimes I change the route, discover a new street, a house for sale, a dead end. I watch the empty Tube train going over the bridge (the Northern line is the loudest). I’m followed by a friendly fox. I pick up the pace when it’s uphill, I slow it down when it gets too hot under my coat. I put my head down when cars approach. I never look at my phone.
I see the allotments with waiting lists that go on for years. I see the stained glass windows, the front doors, and the houses owned by other people.