30 December 2020

I’m surrounded, personally if digitally, by medical advice, and advisors: last count, six doctors and a nurse  in the immediate family.  Immediate but not nearby. They are in Glasgow, Northern Ireland, Aberdeen. My wife and I are here in the North Mainland of Shetland (the central island in the archipelago is called Mainland)  where Susan is one of the local GPs. I am housekeeper, cleaner, cook and at-risk over-60 with underlying health problems. My daughter works in a Covid intensive care unit. Her advice is simple; her mother and all her brothers and sisters-in-law agree:

Dad, don’t get it.

We’re far away: Shetland, 130 miles from the Scottish mainland, has done relatively well in the fight against the virus, despite a catastrophic start. In March an unsuspecting group returned infected from Naples (not then part of  Italy thought to be dangerous) and with the isles’ health authorities initially floundering and  the community still in its accustomed, determined party mode, at least 50 people were infected. One care home saw almost all its residents die. 

The reaction to this was quick and for the most part effective. Links by sea and air to the mainland were cut for all but essential workers and emergencies. Generations of self-reliant islanders have learned to cope with infection by shutting down social contact and for many months, throughout the summer and early autumn, official infection rates were low. Masks became de rigueur in shops. Tourist numbers increased without apparently bringing the disease north. Here in the remoteness of Northmavine, we counted our blessings, breathed the salty air and took our vitamin D.

The run-up to Christmas, with the islands in Tier One and with rules on eating and drinking relaxed,  changed everything, and the first signs emerged in our neck of the bog, in the North Mainland. As the darkness of winter gripped, the traditional forms of socialising were suspended, but not quite. The Christmas parties, meals out, staff drinks. Were they allowed? Well, as long as we’re careful…all  the preparations for the Up Helly Aa fire festival season had been halted. The ‘in aboot da night’ habit of household visiting was banned. Except for dee and me, of course, because, well, we’re fine. And maybe a dram in the galley shed for those and such as those.

Pockets of both younger and older folk had been ignoring the rules quietly for some time, but during December a number of semi-public gatherings took place. No-one’s keen to apportion blame or point the finger, but it seems clear that lax social distancing, careless use of masks, the wrong kind of masks, and a general loosening of restraint, fuelled by alcohol, were to blame. The traditional drinking games (spit the ping-pong-ball from glass to glass, the Bailey’s Challenge) may have been put aside, but the arrival of the vaccines, with the sense that the threat would soon be over, undoubtedly led folk to engage in wishful thinking which affected their judgement.

And now we have an outbreak, with over 30 positive tests in a tiny community. Social media has been largely sensible, sympathetic and supportive, but accompanied by a significant outpouring of denial or misinformation: this is just the flu, no-one will die, let the over-60s get it, we younger folk are fine and we’re prepared to take the risk of infection, these are false positives, blame it on sailors/students/tourists/people in camper vans/living in AirBnB…

The Scottish Government has floundered along with Westminster  in its reaction to the pandemic, though Nicola Sturgeon’s presentational skills have triumphed, North of the Border, over kneejerk Edinburgh centralism, a tin ear in taking on board medical advice from all but favoured advisors, and a dictatorial misapprehension of local opinions, needs and skills. There has also been an occasional willingness to weaponise any small divergence with London policy in the service of the independence cause, and this has not gone unnoticed. The social media playbook has been ruthlessly mined by both sour and vicious unionists (sometimes on an incredibly personal level; they really, really hate Nicola) and the usual see-you-Jimmy cybernat attack dogs. None of that has helped.

Distribution of the Pfizer vaccine has been slow and mistargeted, compared to England, apparently due to regulations laid down by a Scottish Government still reeling after the care homes infection disaster of early in the pandemic. There are signs that this is changing and the  advent of the Oxford jag will undoubtedly see things moving much faster.

As for our local outbreak, the Governmental reluctance to move Shetland from Tier 3 to Tier 4, like the rest of the country, has been largely taken out of Edinburgh’s or any other authority’s hands. Shops and other businesses have unilaterally closed. People are safeguarding each other. Stupidity can still be seen on the streets and in the supermarkets: men love those thin neckerchiefs or Buffs, single-layer and largely useless in stopping the spread of infection. Presumably they think they’re bikers or extras from The Outlaw Josey Wales. You hear of the occasional Hogmanay party still being planned. “We deserved/deserve a break” is still a muttered excuse. A post-New Year explosion of disease is possible, probable,  almost certain. 

As for me, I’m back to spraying all deliveries with disinfectant, staying in the garden or the car or miles from anyone else on long walks. But generally, to quote the late great David,  I don’t want to go out. I want to stay in. Get things done. Take every precaution and wait for the vaccine. 

We’ve just heard that Susan will get the Pfizer vaccine, the first injection, this afternoon. The Oxford jag will start happening, we hope, in January. For everyone.

We’re so close. So far away.