I’ve mentioned how the current strangeness has given rise to so many wonderful aspects of human nature; acts of kindness between neighbours, solidarity among strangers, the bravery and resourcefulness of professionals under unimaginable stress. But it has also shone a light on other, worse behaviours. I know this because I’m guilty of most of them.

I’m suddenly adept at auditing passersby, discerning precisely how they’re enabling the virus. ‘That dog next door is certainly getting a lot of exercise,’ I’ll say to my wife, emphasising the word ‘certainly’ in a reedy, suspicious tone that I’m sure is unfathomably attractive. ‘And look how close those friends are all standing – what is this, BURNING MAN?’

‘They could be flatmates,’ she replies, with treasonous complacency, ‘I think that’s allowed.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say, making a mental note that this is exactly the kind of wishy-washy nonsense a virus-enabler would say.

Most of my trips out into the world are with my son. We don’t have a garden and our flat is so small he can’t run for more than four seconds in any direction – ‘any direction’ being his favourite way of running. He’s given all his old toys a second life, playing with each unloved teddy or broken bath penguin until, one by one, they suffer a second death, too.

He now says, ‘Ooooh!’ and points a finger at any group of two or more people who pass our window, so I can tell him what they’re doing wrong. After this, we usually share notes about his mother’s suspiciously unserious approach to our Neighbourhood Watch activities.

All of this wouldn’t be so appalling if I wasn’t as fallible as everyone else when I do go outside. I make every mistake I loathe in others. I try to stay 2m away from people, but this seems absurd. Stopping 6m ahead of someone rather than politely walking past them, seems passive-aggressive. I mean, I am quite passive-aggressive, but that’s a luxury I only bestow upon close friends and family. Not out on the street, where my need to be liked by strangers takes priority.

At the park, my son, drunk on the prospect of touching and tasting any object, proves himself averse to social distancing. I march him past the slides, which I consider little more than stainless-steel platters of concentrated Covid-19, useful only for those hoping to fire their child through a year’s worth of viral load in three seconds, and at a 45-degree angle. From there, I chase him away from dogs, children and gatherings of people who may or may not be Séamas-O’Reilly-approved family units. There have been close calls, none of which would mark me out as Mr Vigilant to any curtain-twitchers. When we return, my wife asks what we did. The boy and I share a glance, and silently agree she can never know.

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