It’s that time of year again. A time when memories return to that eerie sequence of events that led to lockdowns.

Many people dislike talking about it because, while they conformed at the time, they feel troubled in retrospect. But as the years pass, some of us, like the Ancient Mariner, feel a compulsion to tell people what we went through.

For me the announcement of a lockdown was personal.

I had organised a writers’ conference in a Cambridge college, which meant that I stood to lose thousands of pounds. As a self-employed person with a young family, how was I going deal with that?

It’s very hard for people to empathise with human experience that differs widely from their own. My early life was dominated by family upheaval caused by my mother joining the Christian Scientists in the early 1970s. The Christian Scientists, for those who don’t know, eschew all medical interventions. They claim that the answer to all ailments is prayer and Bible meditation.

My father feared she’d joined a cult. In fact almost everyone thinks they’re a cult. Though I doubt many could tell the difference between a Christian Scientist and a Scientologist. Our family life has been one long argument about the validity of Mary Baker Eddy’s claims. But like all religions, you can vehemently oppose them, but they still shape your thinking.

Between 2011 and 2018, I organised an annual event focused on death and dying, with a comical edge. We called it the Ideal Death Show. I read widely on the subject. I’d watched every episode of the HBO series, Six Feet Under, twice.

My attempts to sell the Ideal Death Show to the Anglican Church or the local NHS revealed to me the middle classes are highly irrational when it comes to dealing with mortality. Bureaucrats were especially dumb. When, as part of the festival, I politely asked Bournemouth Bereavement Services if we could have a picnic tea in the local cemetery, it said no. And then it went to some lengths to ban us from doing so.

One of the most peculiar aspects of modern life is that we regard death as disgusting. Whenever I hear someone is ‘fighting’ cancer, I’m filled with dismay. It’s our daily task to come to terms with the prosaic truth that our bodies are perishable. ‘Thy will, not my will be done’ seems to me a far more sane and realistic response to mortal danger.

The Greek philosopher Epictetus pointed out that most people can’t make up their mind whether to live or die. In the era of virtual reality and technological comfort it becomes ever easier to opt out of ‘being’. Government stole from us huge amounts of precious living time during lockdowns. There was no revolution.

By the beginning of March 2020, all the speakers for my conference in Cambridge had dropped out and I realised something unthinkable was going to happen.

The statistics were not particularly alarming. Yet irresponsible journalists were broadcasting from outside intensive care units. Were they not already aware that death is often drawn-out and unpleasant?

As lockdown was announced, I made a visit to my local Sainsbury’s. It had been ransacked. That shook me up. I knew a bit about government. They’re all blind in the bunker. I was particularly concerned for my friend working in Downing Street. What was the Army going to do? They would share my pragmatic approach to death.

I fully expected them to shut down the BBC and roll a tank down Whitehall. A veteran of the Afghan war would go on TV to say some comforting words about courage and sacrifice and then tell everyone to go back to work. I called my friend in Downing Street and, to my surprise, he seemed unconcerned by this scenario.

Read More: Remembering Lockdown Six Years On