What with disrupted education, rising rents and low wages, it’s hard to be optimistic about the supposed end of the pandemic.
Every two months since March 2020, I have declared the pandemic over. “Grow up, Covid’s over now,” I say to no one in particular. The pronouncement comes more in hope than expectation; the truth is, I’m miserable and desperate for all this to end. The only lingering concern is that the bright 22-year-old I was two years ago is gone for ever; and, like masks on the tube and vaccine scepticism, the perpetually tracksuited homebody I’ve become is the new normal.