I miss the days when all we had to worry about was Brexit, not a coronavirus pandemic

Who gives a stuff what colour our passports are, asks Jenny Eclair, when we probably won’t be going anywhere, anyway?

The possibility of a fortnight’s quarantine looms large in many people’s imagination (Reuters)

I was scrolling through Twitter recently – as a catastrophist does when the world is on the verge of a pandemic – when I saw a video someone had posted from Japan. It featured a couple of minutes of cherry blossom, filmed by officials in one of the parks closed due to the coronavirus, so that people who couldn’t visit the park in person could witness the flowering online. This is the stage we are now at with this terrible disease, and I for one am not sure how brave I’m going to be.

My 90-year-old mother who lives up north, on the other hand, is unfazed. “Oh, it won’t come here,” she announces breezily, whilst I mutter, “I hope not,” considering a large proportion of her neighbours are over 80.

Meanwhile, the car park at my nearest supermarket is suspiciously full at times it shouldn’t be. It’s not quite week-before-Christmas busy. No one is snatching at the shelves, but there is a determined set to the jaw of the ladies pushing their trolleys a little bit more aggressively than usual. You can almost hear them calculating, “How many bags of pasta will feed four for two weeks? How many times can we eat pesto without going mad?”

The possibility of a fortnight’s quarantine looms large in many people’s imagination, so whilst I don’t want to stockpile (I have only a tiny kitchen with little cupboard space, so I’m not sure how I could, even if I did want to), I have found myself chucking a few packet soups into my basket – after all, they don’t take up much room and if push comes to shove, a cup-a-soup is better than nothing. Now, what about wine?

Contemplating being in quarantine at home is almost bearable; at least if I have to self-isolate chez Eclair for a couple of weeks, I’ll get a lot of writing done. I could also be really strict about tidying my drawers, doing regular online yoga classes and watching every Academy Award-winning film ever. Also if I was on a diet of three sachet soups a day, I’d probably lose a stone or two, just in time for summer.

But whilst the idea of self-isolation is borderline pleasurable – after all, I’ve got a parrot tapestry cushion kit I could be getting on with – the reality is grim. I have particular sympathy for those quarantined away from home, for the parents stuck in Tenerife hotel rooms with screaming toddlers. I think it’s this limbo I find most unnerving. This outbreak is going to spread or be contained – which is it?

At the moment, the number of cases is few enough that it’s easy to forget about the wretched virus – after all, the daffodils are out, and The Great Pottery Throw Down is on Channel 4. Then all of a sudden you read something about plans to turn Hyde Park into a giant morgue, and the horror of it all comes flooding back (I shouldn’t use the word “flooding”, either – never has the news been more biblical).

Now more than ever, we need grown-ups to come and take charge – yet they are nowhere to be seen. Boris Johnson – conspicuous in his absence in recent weeks, especially in flood-hit areas – bumbles emptily on about the virus, whilst Trump delivers dangerous platitudes. Meanwhile the Pope, who has been handshaking and kissing in Italy, is confined to his quarters, apparently “indisposed”.

So apologies if you think I’m being stupid and hysterical – hopefully I am – but you know what? I miss the days when all we had to be worried about was Brexit. Who gives a stuff what colour our passports are, when we probably won’t be going anywhere, anyway?

Now excuse me whilst I go and see what happens if I mix a mushroom cup-a-soup with some pasta.