Is it really freedom day today?

Just as Trudy knew not to turn her back on her puffa jacket during a heatwave, she won’t be getting rid of her face masks just yet. By Christine Manby

The inevitable mask/no mask debate promises to be every bit as divisive as the football (Illustration by Tom Ford)

Is it “freedom day” yet? It feels like every time Bojo promises a new loosening of restrictions, what he’s actually promising is a whole new layer of confusion. I no longer have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing. Going to the office or working poolside at an amber destination? Limiting my social contacts or licking all the seats in a stadium? Are we legally allowed to ditch our masks now or not? How are we supposed to make that call?

The way this latest freedom day has unfolded (or should that be unravelled) reminds me of when my brother first started dating his wife Helena. When he was offered a ticket to watch England play South Africa at Twickenham on Helena’s birthday, he asked if she’d mind if he took it up. “Do whatever you want,” she told him, so my brother went to Twickenham and Helena refused to see him for the next month, relenting only when he upgraded her birthday bracelet to an engagement ring. With freedom comes great responsibility. And the possibility of ugly consequences.

My neighbour Brenda, who was double-masking long before it was fashionable, is faced with a dilemma. She’d like to continue wearing her masks, but in doing so worries that she will be subscribing to the view that Bojo is getting it wrong by giving us the choice to unmask, while the Delta variant is still raging. Brenda very much needs to feel that the government knows what it’s doing. Don’t we all?

“What are you going to do?” she asked me, when we met outside my house (Brenda was tidying up my plants – uninvited, but helpful all the same). “Are you going to keep wearing them?”

I told her that I certainly wouldn’t be getting rid of my masks just yet, just as I knew there was no point getting my puffa jacket dry-cleaned during that brief heatwave we had back in early June. I knew I would be putting that puffa back on again after a fortnight.

“Perhaps we should have a street WhatsApp sweepstake,” I suggested. “We can all chip in a pound and bet on how long before a mask mandate comes back in.”

The street WhatsApp group has been very quiet since the night of the Euro 2020 final, when Joe, the Scottish management consultant who recently moved into number six, changed his avatar from a picture of Mel Gibson to the Italian flag and posted a complaint about the rockets Les from number two set off to amuse his grandchildren after the England goal. It got ugly fast.

I’m not looking forward to the inevitable mask/no mask debate that promises to be every bit as divisive as the football. I want to be able to ditch mine for all sorts of reasons – not least because I think that between lockdown and masks I’ve lost the ability to read other people’s faces. That has to have contributed to my mistake with Glenn the postman, thinking that he returned my growing romantic interest in him when in fact he saw me only as a friend. Worse than that, he went on to tell me that I reminded him of his sister. His big sister.

My goddaughter Caroline, who had joined us at FriendsFest on “the date that wasn’t”, got all sorts of information out of Glenn that I hadn’t managed to glean during the five years Glenn has delivered the mail to my street.

“He’s 46. He lives in Tooting. His sister is much older than him…”

“How much?”

“I dunno,” Caroline shrugged. “Maybe she’s 50.”

My own big birthday loomed large.

Glenn was a hit with Caroline, though their politics could not be more different. As we drifted around FriendsFest, marvelling at the coffee cups and other props that had been clutched by famous hands, they covered everything from furlough to freedom day and how a Labour government might have done it differently.

“We owe a great deal to your generation,” Glenn told Caroline. “No one’s been more impacted by the pandemic than your age group. You’ve missed out on school and on all the things that make being a teenager fun. No hanging out with your mates down the shops. No trying to get served in the pub underage.”

“Why would we do that?” Caroline asked.

“Well, you know,” said Glenn. Caroline didn’t “know”.

I suppose having to consider that your every move might be documented on social media for all time makes getting hammered in public rather less appealing. Particularly if you’re planning on a career in politics, as Caroline seems to be.

“So, you’re an actual member of the Young Conservatives,” Glenn marvelled.

“Since I was old enough to join,” said Caroline proudly. “My parents disapprove.”

I have often been surprised by Caroline’s views, but there’s no doubt that she has conviction and a dedication to making her mark on the world that I didn’t have as a teenager. I can’t think of any of my contemporaries who did. There’s a lot of talk about “snowflakes” but my goddaughter makes me hopeful that her generation will at least take their stewardship of the world seriously. They’re thoughtful and ready for responsibility. Just like the young footballers who stepped up to take those penalties last week. What guts.

When I saw Brenda later on the same day she deadheaded my roses, she told me that she’d made up her mind on the mask problem. She would continue to wear one on public transport and in the supermarket and other enclosed places. “For the sake of everyone who isn’t yet vaccinated.” And that evening the street WhatsApp started buzzing again as Les, the street’s biggest England fan, and Joe, the Scottish management consultant, agreed to bury the hatchet regarding the football. At least until the next time.