C-Word

I am sick of it. We are all sick of it. Totally and utterly sick of it.

Sick to the back teeth.

Sick to the stomach.

Sick as a parrot.

I don’t want to hear another advert telling me how to wash my hands.

I don’t need to see another sign illustrating what two meters looks like.

And seriously, I get the whole coughing and sneezing ‘etiquette’ thing. I’ve known it since I was six.

I have a very strong memory of being a seven or eight year old student at the Sacred Heart Primary school in Hammersmith, West London. An external speaker came in to talk to the class although I can’t remember the exact purpose. I think our class teacher was Miss Harris. I loved her. I loved pretty much all my teachers at the Sacred Heart, and none more than the school head, Sister Maltby. I still have a gift she gave me, almost fifty years ago, on my mantelpiece. She told me one day how my dad beat a path to her door every day for two years, to get a place for me in the school. He’d tried before for my older sister but wasn’t successful until her primary schooling was almost over. We were from another parish, and catholic schools were choosy about who they took. Sr Maltby told me all of this with a mix of wry amusement about how he haunted her, and obvious admiration for his persistence. He never gave up, and I am grateful for the tenacity I got from him.

So there we are, with this woman talking to us. We are all sitting on the floor in a circle around her, as we frequently did for our classes. (Do they still do that? I always loved that time, sitting with my legs crossed, admiring my nice clean socks and rubbing my dirty bruised knees, and focusing on making my hands look neat in my lap. I really hope they do).

And the woman starts explaining about infection control. Except obviously she doesn’t call it that. She talks about staying healthy, and not spreading germs. And she asks us lots of questions to which we all eagerly put up our hands, with ready answers. And here’s the one I remember vividly.

“So girls, if you have a cold, and a runny nose, and you’re sneezing a lot, what can you do to stop spreading your germs to your family?”

Hands up, hands up!!! Me, me, pick me. Waving hands. Eager faces. We all know this one.

“Sneeze away from the table” says one girl.

“Very good Michelle. That’s a great answer. “

“Don’t share your cup with anyone,” says another.

“That’s really good advice Bernie, well done.”

Eventually she looks at me. I’m ready to wet myself, I’m so eager to share my knowledge, because my mum is a nurse so I have expert status here. I am a step ahead of them.

“Put your dirty tissue in the bin” I say, with a finality and enthusiasm that clearly indicates this is the holy grail of infection control. This is the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle which will allow us to have a super hygienic classroom.

I was ahead of the game. Decades ahead. 

But back to the C-Word and what I hate about it. Where to begin?

• All the queues: I wouldn’t mind queuing if I could chat to the people around me. It could be nice actually, making small talk, possibly getting to know people who live nearby, but absolutely everyone is glued to their phone in absolutely EVERY queue. Whatever happened to conversation?
• No wakes: not just because they are such an important part of Irish tradition, or because they are integral to how we process our grief, nor even because it’s how we connect and collectively remember, but mostly, because they’re great craic!
• Everyone’s out walking: The lovely quiet route I usually take on my evening ramble with the dog is now a highway of activity, with scooters and bikes, whole families out excercising, cluttering up footpaths, and taking over green areas with their games and picnics. There is no peace to be found anywhere!
• Online shopping: They’ve made it far too easy; just browse and click and all the money we’ve saved on not travelling, not going out for meals or to the pub, not getting our hair cut, not buying a daily Americano, all those savings are gone in one virtual transaction purchasing unnecessary sweatshirts, surplus leggings, runners that will never be worn, and gym equipment that will never be used. The pile of drunken purchases waiting to be returned is growing exponentially. There really should be a breathyliser test required before they allow us to click.