Private London

The National Gallery, Trafalgar Square

Over the next few days I began to enjoy working from home. On Monday night Boris Johnson told us that we must not go outside except for exercise or other  absolute necessities, but I had begun to settle in by then, and I wasn’t taken by surprise, given the state of other COVID-19-stricken countries. Trying not to think about all the places abroad I hadn’t yet been, I tried to embrace my opportunities closer to home. There were so many things I wanted to do; so many new languages to learn and forgotten ones to revisit; so very many books (two deep in places); recipes to cook; friends to videomeet. I talked more, to more people. On the first Thursday my mates and I had a prolonged apéritif and dinner. My anxiety began to recede.

I was, after all, in an extraordinarily privileged position; I had a steady job in a nice workplace, comfortable housing, good health, money to spend on food, and a partner I enjoyed spending time with in a confined space. Not everyone had all, or indeed any, of these conditions. Furthermore, I had enough extra-curricular interests to keep me occupied for several lifetimes. I felt guilty about having anxiety. I should flourish in these circumstances. I told my mother I had been feeling anxious, and she texted back, “Relax. Just go with the flow”, and I imagined her reclining under the sun wearing a large wicker hat as she typed it, possibly watching Woodstock videos of Joe Cocker and Santana. I watched Joe Cocker and Santana at Woodstock.

When I realised I hadn’t left the flat for three days, I cycled around town to see what was going on. At Trafalgar Square I stopped to take a photo of a duck in the fountain, and for the first time in years, I heard the bells of St-Martin-in-the-Fields peal clearly above the empty roads.

The daffodils nodded politely as I cycled around the gardens of the Imperial War Museum. The solitary word ‘pandemic’ floated on the air from the radio of a parked car, but the flowers didn’t hear. A serious, bearded man strode past me with a four-pack of toilet roll clutched tightly under his arm. I wanted to smile at him and say “Well done” - on finding the goods, I would have meant, not on his impending evacuation - but he couldn't see me through his scowl. Instead I wuffled at waving dogs, while the daffodils breezily agreed.

On Friday, which felt like a Sunday, I cycled across Blackfriars Bridge. The river Thames lay flat and gleaming below; the only moving vehicle a low-slung barge heaped with coal. I watched as it passed beneath me, tempted to wave at the captain but too awkward to do so, even in this empty city for two. I had planned to cycle along the Embankment towards the Strand, but as I looked towards the City the sunlit dome of St Paul’s caught my eye, and I turned at the Blackfriar pub, heading east.

The cathedral rose stoically from the cobbles, as it always had, over plague, fire, Viking attacks, war, and other disasters. Two police officers casually strolled down Fleet Street, hands tucked into jackets. They were the first officers I’d seen since the new regulations had been announced. I caught the eye of a homeless man living in a doorway, and stopped in the empty road for a chat. He was grand, he said, answering my question cheerily, as he smiled up at the bright March sky. ‘Enjoy the sunshine!’ I called, as I pedalled away.

The bells of St Clements were ringing on the Strand as I approached the island church, St Clement Danes. It was three o’clock. ‘Oranges and lemons’, they sang brightly. I parked my bike and sat on the church wall to listen. I had never heard them before; the traffic streaming around the island had always been too raucous. The bells continued; song after song. I fulfilled none of the criteria for being outside; I was neither shopping for essentials nor exercising at that particular moment; nor had I anywhere urgent to be. But the lonely bells chimed on and it suddenly seemed very important that someone should be there to hear them, in this strange, empty city of Sundays.

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