Applause, applause but what happened to London?

Applause, applause but what happened to London?


Last night the whole of Britain and the world broke out into spontaneous applause, a stunning show of hand clapping at its loudest, strongest and most resonant. There was a thunderous standing ovation, a rapturous reception for the National Health Service. For at least five minutes it genuinely felt as if we knew all our neighbours. There we were in front of our homes, standing proudly on our flat balconies, cheering hoarsely on our roads and streets from all points of the compass. We were united, harmonious, singing from the same hymn sheets and  powerful voices for the good things in life.

Of course it was time for mutual appreciation because we knew that the NHS were fully deserving of our fulsome praise, our vast national eulogy for everything the NHS stands for. We could never thank them enough, for being at the front line, fighting and attacking the rampant disease that is coronavirus. Some of us may have been reduced to floods of tears because our emotions have taken a severe pummelling but our gratitude will forever be forthcoming.

There is a very real sense that the entire world has ground to a standstill. But last night we wiped our eyes with a handkerchief, looking around us in a state of bewilderment and not knowing where to turn our heads. We were effusively thankful to the National Health Service because we knew that without them we would never be able to claim, at any point during our lives, that we were in the rudest health and when we needed them they were just there to offer a comforting shoulder to cry on or an understanding face.

And so we acknowledged for perhaps the millionth time the remarkable contribution made by all of those wonderfully knowledgeable doctors, nurses, surgeons and medical maestros who have performed such astonishing feats in the face of extreme adversity. Somehow though we have carried on with lives both stoically and bravely, exercising once a day, keeping a respectful distance from our fellow human beings but still worrying, still deeply concerned, not agonising about our own health as such because at the moment life is still healthy, sweet and straightforward.

At the back of our minds though is the lingering anxiety, a private anguish about the prospect of going outdoors in case we bump into somebody who simply can't help their coughing or an unexpected bout of sneezing. There has been a conscious and determined effort to keep a calm head and not to think about anything that could be remotely considered as negative. We look at the TV news, listening to our radios, checking social media quite rigorously and then just sticking together since there can be no other alternative.

But yesterday you couldn't help but wonder at the hugely detrimental effect that the coronavirus is having on not only the whole of Britain but for those of us who live on the outskirts of London. It was now that you cast your curious eyes on the West End of London. You gasped with shock and horror at the capital city, the once thriving theatre land that had now been darkened and silenced, now closed for business for the duration and how long would be anybody's guess. It almost seems as if somebody has pulled the plug out of the socket and turned the volume right down.

Piccadilly Circus, that flashing, flickering, dancing, bustling, bristling and electrifying hub of everything entertaining, had now been subdued, a no man's land, empty husk, a haunting wilderness, a picture of gravity, sombreness and almost grief. The buskers in the Tube station had long gone and there was not a soul in sight on the streets. A pitiful handful of Route Master buses were inching forward painfully and awkwardly, as if acutely aware of some deeply unfortunate set of circumstances.

All around Eros there were those colourful, high tech neon signs that once promoted a whole host of electrical goods, junk food and endless varieties of soft drinks which were no longer the visible presence they had once been so prominently. You could, quite literally, count the number of people on your fingers since they knew that the West End had felt lost, deserted and betrayed, abandoned for the time being because we were all frightened to visit it. It must have felt a deep sense of loneliness and of course the obvious isolation, privately crying and totally inconsolable because nobody wanted it anymore.

Briefly, you turned your attention to Trafalgar Square, once the home of a million pigeons and now just a soulless playground with just acres of desolate pavements. The National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery had no identity, no tourists at all or very few that we could see and around the whole of Trafalgar Square there was nothing to commend it as one of the most atmospheric squares in the world.  Those magnificent lions, alongside the formidable Nelson's Column, once the pride and joy of the West End of London, were on their own.

These are extraordinary times and it's hard to remember a time in our lives when anything like this has ever been experienced on such a monumental scale. It almost feels as if 2020 hasn't really begun if only because very little of any significance has happened. January and February have gone through the motions, shivering and getting ever so slightly wet and drenched at times but then the rains seem to have petered out. But March! Well, don't get us started on that one. We were doing very nicely thanks until we stopped talking about Brexit. Then we found ourselves trying desperately hard to focus on some unknown but destructive disease and pandemic.

This morning it was revealed that Prime Minister Boris Johnson has now been diagnosed with COVID 19 or the symptoms of the coronavirus. It may have been before your time but you can possibly compare the events of the present day to the 1950s TV science fiction horror show that was Quatermass where aliens with menacing intent would wipe out massive swathes of the human population. HG Wells would grimly recount tales of apocalyptic destruction and spacecrafts would hover over the world with equally as menacing force. But this has to be a horrible dream, It will go away and we know it will.

But this is not the time for gloom and pessimism, fearful and portentous events which could lead to a hellish breakdown of communication. There will be an imminent recovery because this can't be allowed to continue or get out of our control. Thousands of lives have been lost and many more have been quarantined, self isolated and told quite categorically that they had to stay at home. However, this is time to look forwards rather than back.

Eventually though we will pull through and we will get there.  The renowned British resilience, the strong spine of resolve and determination will undoubtedly triumph. The scientific experts know for a fact that vaccines can be discovered in productive laboratories so surely this can only be a matter of time. We will conquer coronavirus and we will strike out into greener pastures, breathing the brisk, invigorating air of the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District. We will get back to some semblance of normal life, we can shop once again to our heart's delight and we will travel around the cities, the shires, counties, towns and market stalls of Britain free from fear and apprehension.

Across the council estates, the snug villages with their distinctive air of privacy, the semi detached and terraced houses, the lush green fields, the richly melodious farmlands with their ageless sheep and cows, hope will be restored. Britain will once again revisit its gyms and libraries, its post offices and chemists with a song in its heart. Of course it may not seem like it at the moment but to those who may despair we have to believe that the world will indeed be given a complete bill of good health. Hold on everybody. We've been told to stay safe repeatedly and we will. Rest assured.