THE YEAR 2020 - THE RESULTS

2020 VISION. ‘I May Have Lost my Vision, But I Can still be Heard. Or Can I?’

The clock announced the start of 2020 and we all joined together as friends, our arms wrapped around one another, singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, not knowing that that would be the last time we would hug each other for a very long time.

We shared jokes and laughter and reflected on what was to come in the year to follow. ‘My 2020 vision’ we called it, playing with words, connecting the name of the year and perfect eyesight. The two would go together. It would be a great year. We were sure of it! 

I was privileged because, unlike those who, because of impaired eyesight, did not have 20/20 vision, I would be able to watch a football game, joining with others to cheer on our team as they strived for that elusive goal,  listening to the ‘Oooohs’ and ‘Aaaaahs’ of the crowd as the opposition goalkeeper pulled off yet another great save. 

I would able to watch the actors ‘strutting their stuff’ on stage with a clarity which those without 20/20 vision would not. 

I was privileged and thankful. I knew that 2020 would bring life-enhancing visions for me. 

But then everything changed.

I watched football games, but only on a screen, so that I saw a picture of what went on, but not everything.  I sat in a park, safe in the open air, watching a theatrical performance on stage, but only on a screen. 

The camera decided my vision, not I. My gaze, my focus, every movement, every moment of importance, whether at the match or in the stalls, was dictated by that camera, not me. I had had my 20/20 vision stolen from me, and the year 2020 was the culprit. He was the one to blame.

But I still had my hearing, thank goodness.

That reminded me of the first sounds I heard as a child. They were of my mother, helping me to play with my toys. “You know, ‘Zoom’ is the sound made by rockets as they reach for the skies. One day you might be able to go up into space.” 

Wow! I thought, sitting there, enraptured, as a small child. 

Then, as I grew older, moving through those teenage years, I started to reflect on the isolation of astronauts as they went up into space, leaving the world behind. What was it really like to be ‘The first man in the moon’? 

Zoom, I knew, meant isolation.

But here, in the year 2020, ‘Zoom’ does not mean isolation. It means making connections with people you would otherwise never see.

So now I sit at home again, not a small child any more.

‘Zoom’ means we can listen to one another, even if that is at a distance.

Zoom gives us all hope. We are not alone any more. If we listen hard enough we can hear the voices, the thoughts and feelings, of others.

I am alone at home again. But you can hear me now, I hope…………please. 

2375 Return to Earth 

“Hey guys, come and look at this. I think it may be important.” Pavel Chomsky waved excitedly to his colleagues. They were all members of the inter-galactic archaeology team from Settlement Alpha on Mars. They were excavating in the city of Cambridge and were in a chamber under what had been the Cavendish laboratory. They were trying to fathom why Earth had become a dead planet in the twenty-second century. Their ancestors had left voluminous records on the chain of events leading to the total loss of viable habitats for all animals and plants but there were still some intriguing unanswered questions.

First, all species of insect had gradually died out and without this vital link the food chain had collapsed. Pavel’s colleague, the biologist Marco Biondi had briefed them all on the three week flight from Mars on the fundamental role of insects. “Every buzzing, crawling and hovering insect is a cog in the ecological machine.” 

Pavel knew about their vital role as pollinators. Without insects crops can’t reproduce and humans and animals lose key food sources. He was also aware that they are food providers for birds, bats and fish and that they decompose animal and plant waste. He was unaware of their other two important functions as pest controllers and soil engineers. 

“Yes,” Marco elaborated, “By feeding on crop-threatening pests, predatory insects perform the role of non-chemical pesticides….And termites and ants can transform soil in hot dry climates. Their tunnelling aerates hard ground helping it retain water.”

From their history lessons they knew that the huge loss in insect populations had caused all countries to stockpile food. With the inexorable decline in food production and the rapid depletion of these stocks World War Three had broken out between the Western and Eastern Hemispheres. Countries fought over remaining food and water supplies. Billions died from starvation and from nuclear fall-out. From 2225, once the hyper space propulsion technology had been proven, huge transports had been ferrying people from the richest countries on Earth to the rapidly growing biosphere colonies on Mars. These colonies started as independent national entities. Once the last link with Mother Earth had been severed in 2265 the colonists realised that their only hope of survival was to pool resources and brain-power and create an integrated trans-national society. 

From then onwards the Mars Federation had grown and prospered. For the past few decades it had been sending teams back to Earth on exploratory missions. Pavel’s group was tasked with investigating the early 2020’s when a pandemic had caused major fractures in the established world order. Repeated failures to produce effective vaccines for the constantly mutating virus had led to increasingly hysterical reactions as countries closed their borders and developed a siege mentality. 

Then the insects started to disappear. Why?

Pavel had in his hand a dusty research paper dated December2023 with the title ‘MUTANT STRAIN OF COVID 19 CAUSES INSECT DEPOPULATION. Scrawled across the front page was the supervisor’s comment, ‘Brilliant work. God help us!”

Aunt Betty

Looking through the window pane

I notice the roads are silent once again.

There are no footsteps where people normally tread

Just silent whispers from the many dead.

Locked in guilded cages, throught with fear

As we loose those to us that are so dear.

I look towards the corner at the empty chair

Remembering that Auntie Betty once sat there.

With trepidation, I slowly open the door 

And hesitate as I step out once more.

I walk past the nursing home where Aunt Betty used to stay

It would seem that half the residents had gone away

Dark empty rooms with curtains tightly closed

The remaining residents and staff indisposed.

The silent killer had been allowed to walk inside,

His putrid breath causing a deathly tide.

A little too late the door was actually locked,

Not soon enough for the silent killer to be blocked.

I watched as the black bags carried the many dead away.

I watched Auntie Betties friends finally leave with dismay.

With a deep feeling of dread and remorse

I continued with my one hour exercise course.

My exercise over I finally reach my abode

Inside, once again I follow the regime of the hygiene code.

I look for something to eat only to find the fridge and larder bare

I’m not that hungry so I don’t really care.

I go to bed, close my eyes and try to sleep

My eyes still open, I decide that would keep.

I sit in the corner in Auntie Betties chair

Recalling the daily news with despair.

Day by day things seemed to be getting worse

It seems that we will have to learn to live with this deadly curse.

I remembered when Auntie Betty and I had our last chat

She was happy in the nursing home and that was that.

Little did we know of the carnage that was to follow

When the silent killer began to make our lives so hollow.

Salty droplets of water run down my face

As I continued to think of the hopelessness of the case.

I look at the coat still hanging on the door,

My thought return to Aunt Betties suffering once more

As the silent killer ravaged her body she was unprepared

All alone in her last moments, she must have been very scared.

No family or friends allowed with her to say goodbye

All alone the poor old lady was left to die.

A brief respite for all of us in the summer sun

A decent send off for Aunt Betty was done.

Of the freedom many people made the most

Before returning to safety from their deadly host.

Statues.

Jason stood three shades stupefied in Euston’s concourse, looking up at the departures board that confirmed not time nor platform for his train. The updraft from the underground swished his top-knot, an aloe-vera draught to his sunburnt neck. 

Feet clattered; synchronous with the board.

‘The next train from platform eleven, is the twenty-twenty - calling at Harrow and Wealdstone, Watford junction…’

Jason burst into a run down the ramp past the M&S where he careered through the poncy couple and their newly purchased overblown bottle of plonk. Passengers scattered as he burst through the barrier without even the decency to swipe his oyster card.

He ran (those watching or avoiding him, would say staggered) down the platform to the front of the train and jumped into a first-class compartment. Lolling, he rested his boots up on the chair opposite; his blue urban combat trousers clashing with the lime-green check seat coverings. 

He popped and downed his pilfered can of Stella; before discarding it onto the floor with the toast ‘Drink, fight, football.’

He fished out a large cigar from his pocket and after running his nose along its length, lit it; confirming that it was well alight by blowing a cloud of vitriolic blue smoke into the compartment. 

Rule Britannia, his ring-tone floated up into the smoky strata.

‘Yeah Baz, great day.’

‘Just like we promised - protect the statues - Ing-ger-land - Ing-ger-land.’

The couple and their plonk, made to enter the compartment; took one look at his flagrant smoking abuse and retreated.

‘Great day on tour; what a ruck at the Cenotaph, did you see that horse bolt? Priceless.’

‘Pity Boris didn’t show his mop in Trafalgar Square, he could have worn one of your smoke-bombs.’

Crowing laughter echoed.

‘Never has so much been owed; we’ll fight them on Waterloo Station, on Dover beach.’

Jason puffed on the cigar.

‘We must do this again. What was the name of that boozer? What do you mean, of course I can remember how many pints we drank; unlucky thirteen. You’re such a lightweight and it was your round next. Typical Mourinho always bottling it… No surrender Baz, gotta go, it’s my stop.’

***

‘Jason.’

His head was fit to burst; ‘Oww, Mum.’

She hit him with her paper again and again. ‘Is this you?

He peered out from under the duvet and got another whack for his troubles.

‘Mum.’

‘Don’t you Mum me you filthy toad. It is you.’

Jason scrutinized the headlines through a fog, fending off more blows.

‘Crap.’

RIGHT WING THUG DESICRATES

ROBERT PEEL’S MEMORIAL.

As his Mother was pointing out, there in colour, so it had to be true, was his own bum on show – an amber rivulet trickled away from Peel’s statue and it wasn’t from all the discarded beer cans.

‘But mum, I had thirteen pints.’

‘Do I look like I care?’

Jason winced as his ear was twisted.

‘Protecting statues my foot. As usual, you’re taking the Peter Schmeichel. Bye the bye, the Bobbies want a word.’

Is There An Upside To Covid?

“I hate this bloody virus. Rob is laying in a hospital bed, with sepsis running through his body and we can’t go and see him.” I yelled pacing around the kitchen. Yes the news he is now classed as stable after spending 3 days on the critical list is great news. The tough old bugger is beating the infection but the cancer is still there. The cancer that we’ve been told will take him away from us within a year.  

“I hate this.” My voice full of anger,  because being angry is easier than facing my other emotions.  We should be doing all the things we planned when he got the diagnosis. We’d all spent the weekend before lock down together, celebrating our birthdays, with the usual teasing of him being a whole day older , although the emphasis on teasing   has changed since we were kids, now I like being the youngest. 

We were moaning about the ridiculously long 16 week curfew that has been placed on him because he was now in the “at risk”  category. Surely this Covid stuff would be over long before 16 weeks, after all it’s just like flu right? 

We naively made a list of things we would do and places we would go after the 16 weeks was up. If we could have followed the plan we would have been up to see him twice already and would now be getting ready for us all to go to the Lake District next week. 

If it wasn’t for this bloody COVID we would have travelled up to see him the minute he was taken into hospital, hell no we wouldn’t, at least one of us would have gone up to look after him when the infection first took hold and it might never have got to this stage but because we were trying to protect him from COVID he is now facing lengthy skin graft operations to cover the wounds left by the sepsis. “This Bloody Covid has robbing us of precious time with our friend.” I yell even louder. 

“Mum stop!” My daughter grabs my by the shoulders stopping me from pace, forcing me to look at her. 

“Yes COVID has stopped you going up to see Rob, but, because of Covid you all now zoom every week. You all laugh like teenagers from 7 Friday evening through to the early hours of Saturday morning. Your cheesy jokes, singing of advert tunes from the olden days and awful StarWars puns, keep me awake  by the way. These wouldn’t have happened had it not been for COVID. You now all phone each other throughout the week too, because other distractions aren’t getting in the way. This virus may have kept you physically appear but has actually bought you all closer. You are now a much bigger part of each other’s lives than you ever have been. COVID isn’t robbing you if your friends, it’s giving them back to you.” 

Twenty  

Celebrations put on ice: like a patient lying on a 

trolley. Unmoving. Play dates, for young and old, 

pencilled in for another day: ‘when this is all over’.

The daily score. Government graphs that rise 

and rise, like lofty spires; each one, unwelcome, 

a steep stairway to heaven.

Supermarkets: imagined threats, fear of 

shortages, empty the shelves of people’s brains, 

the zeroes registering behind eyes of jealous 

customers.

Time on our hands – too much for some to fill – 

rattling empty spaces or bouncing off the walls 

of the thirteenth floor.

Weasel words, truths and untruths shift and 

fuse, like quicksands that serve to confuse. Firm 

exceptions made - Cummings and goings – like 

the man himself, repel.

Empty stages, pages of lines unlearned and left 

stage right – the ghosts of past performances 

daring to whisper, their voices, lost, 

echoing through The Gods.

We wrestle - no touch - with the idea of …no 

touch. Do we have the measure of distance –

donning the mantle of social dimension as never 

before?

The old -old people – diminished memories their 

only protection - left to shrink and fade. 

Betrayed, by…who, and why? Left to die.

The schools – the children – bubbles of a very 

different sort that do not float from place to 

place or reflect delight in the eyes of the small; 

but separate, as sure as walls of steel.

Choirs lose their voice, their songs and arias 

wrapped up and boxed, stamped as dangerous 

to the public good. 

The motorway hushed and empty. Cars and 

lorries packed away, in a scene from days long 

gone, to come out another day.

Long summer days, sunshine carried on the 

wings of friendly winds, the jet- stream bent 

high above the clear blue skies.

Distant Spanish island: its pocket picked, 

February sunshine stolen, and smuggled home 

to flood months later from glossy holiday snaps. 

Four chairs, surround a table where once there 

were only two – unscheduled family meals, 

diverting chat, swapping stories an unexpected 

bonus.

Swifts swoop high and low, an aerial display, a 

masterclass that fill the skies now that the 

planes have gone – their tails a V-sign to the 

kites.

Time to read… then read some more. To settle 

into the comfortable familiarity of a favourite 

chair, to start, and read until the end.

Acts of kindness, selflessness played out on 

every scale – in quiet solitude or trumpeted on 

the national stage.

New heroes – dressed now not in khaki nor 

draped in capes of red, but clad in scrubs, or 

whites, or simple homespun tweed.

Fitter than for years – circuits in the garden, 

press-ups, pull-ups, never ever give ups, brisk 

evening walks fuelled by talk about the this and 

that of lockdown.

Neighbours, rarely seen together, stand socially 

distanced shoulder to shoulder, to clap the NHS 

with hands, and pans, to let them know their 

sacrifice has not gone unnoticed.

So, at the end of this year

With questions aplenty 

What score would I give it?

Say… ten out twenty?

Wake-up call

Gemma woke to the dawn sunlight filtering through the lavender drapes, handcrafted by an Indian collective, which she’d purchased last week from the local free trade ethical shop in town. She’d added a tie-dyed matching trim of pink silk, which she'd dyed herself with avocado stones, just to add a little extra flourish. She got up and made herself a large mug of of fair trade coffee, and returned to the bedroom. She'd left Jon still sleeping; he’d had a busy day yesterday, teaching carpentry skills at the local school and later, at the evening class; his hobby reborn. He'd been tired, but so much happier than when he faced the daily commute, over an hour long both ways, to his faceless office for a unrewarding job. He’d even been inspired, as soon as he returned home, to pick up his guitar and work on a new tune for his band, which played weekly for the sing-around at the community hall. 

Meanwhile, she’d been busy baking cakes for the annual celebration happening this afternoon, ‘Care for all’. The celebration had begun eight years ago, after the vaccine was produced and it was safe to mix and mingle once more, get together again sharing lives and memories. Thank goodness, Gemma thought, the people had finally come to their senses, all over the world. As one, they'd decided that enough was enough; they would find other ways to live their lives, at one with nature and humanity.

She was looking forward to the celebration, meeting up with family and friends, old and new and the warm fuzzy feeling everyone shared. And later, she and Jon were planning to wander to the evening meet-up, held around the town's memorial to those who had lost their lives in the pandemic. It had been carved by a local stonemason, with the names of the lost, etched on its sides, for remembrance. The last time they’d seen the memorial, a fortnight ago, the late-flowering climbing roses and vines were already at the top, their buds beginning to form. And they would at last gaze in wonder at the newly created Green Man, his skeleton now clothed, as every year, in sweet-smelling blooms.

So as Gemma opened the curtains on another glorious autumn morning, and as the sunlight welcomed a beautiful day, she could hear the birds and bees mingling their sweet twitterings and buzzings as they lived out their lives in this newly created world, where humanity once more had become part of, not apart from, Nature; a post-apocalyptic heaven.

She was still tired. Leaving the curtains open, she set the alarm for an hour's time and lay down once more at Jon’s side and dozed.

...

As the alarm blared out, Gemma woke. She picked up her mobile, at the side of the bed.

And her dream shattered. The date glared out from the screen.

28th September 2020. Back to reality; an apocalyptic hell.