With coronavirus upon us, one thing that probably needs to stop is this strange idea that anyone wants older people to die. That younger folk learn the old are vulnerable and think, “That’s OK then.” That Remainers think it’s Old Testament-style payback for Brexit – a “gammon” apocalypse. Or that millennials are so embittered at how much easier past generations had it that they’re happy for them to perish.

If you perused certain sections of social media, you’d think we were all busy stockpiling either ageist prejudices or paranoiac visions about the young wishing the old dead. That we’re truly living in an era of militant ageism. But really, who are these militant ageists – does anyone actually know one?

It’s not just the elderly who are vulnerable – other groups include those with underlying conditions, disabled people and babies. But it’s the elderly who have been the butt of gallows humour and worse. Then again, isn’t this just the online cesspit? Somewhere, doubtless chiselled on a stone tablet, the first rule of the internet states: “Whatever dost happen, big or small, there will always be a sizable group of people spouting appalling shit about it.” Online Britain vents – it’s what it does – but do such attitudes exist in the real world?

Rationally, it’s unlikely; emotionally, it’s unthinkable. Older people are not some disposable, abstract concept to younger generations. Most of us have older relatives whom we love. Which explains why, for all the internet yak, I’ve met a grand total of no one who feels relieved or smug that old people are in danger. On the contrary, people seem extremely concerned about ageing relatives and older neighbours who live alone. In reality, the intergenerational hate we’re all supposed to be sloshing about in vanishes like the toxic, childish mirage it is.

And thank God for that. There is quite enough to worry about without some twist on Logan’s Run kicking off. The idea of looking to Boris Johnson for answers feels plain weird – I’d be more likely to hunt out the Magic 8-Ball I got from Amazon and give that a good shake. Tactless words have been said and written (talk of “culls” of the elderly?). And, naturally, our every own anti-Cassandra, Ann Widdecombe, couldn’t resist wading in, saying: “We’ve had the scare of Sars, bird flu, Ebola and, of course, Aids. None proved as devastating as feared.” So around 35 million Aids-related deaths isn’t devastating? Thanks for letting us know, Ms Widdecombe.

So, as always, there’s tons of stupid going around. Maybe, by now, there’s even a deepening suspicion among the elderly that the young really would dance on their graves. My advice: don’t fall for the online hype. Coronavirus is about many things, but it’s not about ageism.

A little more des res: rabbit hutches now with windows



Do we want to live in a home the size of a London taxi? Photograph: Nick Ansell/PA

Please indulge me in a quick poll: hands up, anybody who’d love to live in a home with no windows – or one the size of a black cab? So, absolutely nobody then.

Why do some people think that something they would hate for themselves would be acceptable for others? A loophole has just been closed, which allowed developers to build properties with no windows. Since 2013, they were permitted to convert old corporate or industrial buildings into living spaces without planning permission, so as to boost the supply of available new homes.

This resulted in exploitation and substandard homes, many of which had no natural light. One conversion project in London led to 57 new homes with no windows, described by an architect as “more like a battery farm than a housing development”. Moreover, there were no minimum space standards for conversions, and some plans were for homes that were about the size of a London taxi.

How could anyone be expected to live humanely in such conditions? This is now being sorted out …ish. The Ministry of Housing has just committed to reforms where all homes built under the permitted development scheme are required to meet standards for natural light. However, nothing was said about the size of homes, while certain pledges – such as extending existing buildings upwards by two storeys – suggest that hitting Tory targets takes priority. (They promised 300,000 new homes a year, and, last year, produced only 240,000.)

That this is being partially and inadequately addressed now doesn’t justify the past seven years of what appears to be wholesale under-regulated cowboy building. Add to this the general state of the UK’s rented sector (escalating rents, unacceptable conditions, unscrupulous landlords, insufficient housing benefit), and it is clear that the concept of “battery tenants” is uncomfortably close to the truth.

Will Cornwall prove the Moby Dick of Greggs’ ambitions?



A Cornish pasty made in Cornwall. Photograph: ID8035355

Your attention please: Greggs is trying to return to Cornwall, mere months after its sole, short-lived branch was axed in a move dubbed “Greggxit”. Greggs intends to open a branch at another site (yet to be determined), and Cornish people are furious, saying they have enough baked goods of their own.

This is clearly the main issue facing Britain right now – can Greggs finally win over the home of the pasty? But why is this so important to Greggs? The high street chain has enjoyed an astonishing run of late – the vegan sausage roll, the fake steak-bake, giving Stormzy his VIP card – so can’t they let it go about Cornwall? Apparently not.

The psychology is fascinating, and making me strangely hungry. Maybe there’s a secret Greggs war-room, with flashing red dots signifying branches all over Britain and just one empty, Greggs-free space (Cornwall)? In the corner, perhaps, a Greggs boss who’s gone full-Citizen Kane, obsessively muttering “hungry surfers” under his breath.

Or is this about the challenge – has Cornwall become the whale that couldn’t be caught, the mountain that couldn’t be climbed, the vegan steak-bake that couldn’t be sold – that which must be conquered at all costs? Whatever’s going on, I fear I can’t do it justice. Where’s Hemingway when you need him?

• Barbara Ellen is an Observer columnist