It doesn’t seem long ago that the virus we were most worried about contracting was one in our computers. The Millennium Bug was built up to be the biggest pandemic of our time and became the biggest anticlimax. Of course, we’ve had SARS, MERS and Ebola, but they barely touched Europe to the extent it seemed WHO was crying wolf with their warnings of coronavirus in January.

     Fast forward to autumn 2020 and life’s so absurd it’s like living in an Ionesco play. Little did we know that we’re each basically a human aerosol can, firing dangerous droplets into the air. The superpowers have been propelled into some global arms race (or shot-in-the-arms race) to develop a vaccine and it’s not the Cold War we’re in but the Cure War. But what happened to reports of the Oxford vaccine being ready by September? Was that just a ploy to gain more funding? Whatever the case, I’d like to nominate the Oxford research team for Best Science Fiction Story of the year. It’s bizarre how science seems to have mutated into fiction in front of our very eyes, leaving writers redundant. For instance, the Sage scientific advisory group publish ‘scenarios’ rather than predictions as if they’re screenwriters. In the meantime, I’ve applied to take part in the NHS coronavirus vaccine studies and I’m so desperate for a vaccine I’d even defect to Russia for one!

     A recent furore involved a Van running over a Robin and a Swann (the Health Minister). I was never that big a fan of Van Morrison but I like him much more after his cri de coeur for writers and musicians to join him in rejecting socially-distanced gigs. Having said that, I recognise a need for social distance and disagree with his conspiracy theory about governments ‘enslaving us’ – if anything we’re just in a nanny state – but I believe artists have the right to work like everyone else without being guilt-tripped. I also found it absurd when Emmet McDonough-Brown tried to culturally cancel Van Morrison by asking for his Freedom of Belfast to be revoked, as it’s not as if he’s the only artist to speak out. Andrew Lloyd Webber said in September that the arts were at the ‘point of no return’ and was contemplating taking his new production abroad where ‘people are being a little more helpful.’

     I have to admit that as a writer I’ve felt useless in the fight against Covid, so it was surprising to find out we could all save the economy by eating out half-price. In August came the launch of the ‘Eat Out to Help Out Scheme’ also known as ‘Pig Out to Help Out’ or, to revamp that stirring wartime slogan, ‘Pig for Victory’. It was just a bit odd that the government expressed a desire to cut obesity due to the extra risks from Covid-19, yet asked us all to eat more.

     At last, the indoor ‘wet’ bars have opened, which is a relief as with our autumn it’s getting harder to balance continental lifestyle with the arctic weather conditions. This year, we’ve not only had to transform our bibulous habits but also our sexual mores. Orgies and threesomes are out; monogamous relations and chastity are in. Covid-19 is even more effective than religion for controlling our licentiousness - instead of going to hell in the distant future, it’s straight to isolation in the ICU. However, not everyone is modifying their behaviour towards moderation. A cocaine dealer told me lockdown was wonderful for business because people had nothing else to do but stay at home and drink and take drugs. Drug-dealers and Jeff Bezos have made a fortune out of Covid.

     In spite of the new norms, Van Morrisonesque refuseniks object to changing their lives. It’s amusing to see government adverts of young people in masks bandying the advice, ‘Wear One for Granny,’ when most of the grannies in my district go bare-mouth. Every time I walk into my local shop, people stare at me like I’m a masked robber. Sometimes I feel like a fully-clothed person who’s just wandered into a nudist colony. A friend of mine has never worn a mask and even carries round an old inhaler to pretend he’s asthmatic in case he’s ever challenged. Personally, I don’t mind being masked-up – firstly, it makes me feel like a badass motherfucker and, secondly, it means I don’t have to tweeze my whiskers. A win-win situation all round.

     As the months pass, I’m getting used to the era of the empty inbox, to my uncut hair letting me down instead of me letting my hair down, but it’s important for us writers not to become apathetic. I fervently hope that literary festivals will soon go live. If there aren’t any safe spaces here on earth, perhaps Elon Musk could launch the first ever Lunar Litfest in 2021. Talking of literature, what about CCEA’s ludicrous move to bump the novel, poetry or drama off the GCSE curriculum? Surely students have more time than ever to read books. Following on from the government’s startling success with exam algorithms, I’d like to propose a new algorithm to help the arts sector and boost the status of writers. From now on, I’d like all three-star reviews for my plays to be upgraded to five.

     After reading about the real-life partners of the EastEnders cast being allowed on set for kissing scenes, I’ve decided to offer my own services as a body double in Hollywood for any bedroom scenes. Yes, I am prepared to live in a permanent isolation bubble just to help the likes of George Clooney and Orlando Bloom achieve artistic heights. As a key worker, I’ll happily sacrifice myself to mankind (or to any kind man!).

     One positive of the new dispensation is that we no longer have any FOMO as there’s nothing to miss out on. I love travel but these days I’m on the couch instead of the coach and the only station I’ve been to is a sanitizer station.

     It’s hilarious how the government keeps using unproven science as a means of political expediency. When they claim children are less likely to catch or transmit the disease, translate this as: we’re dumping them in school to make their parents go back to work. Apparently, two months ago the ‘science’ said it was safe to eat and drink in a pub but not to purely drink in one, and now it’s only safe to drink or eat out before eleven – cue images of coronavirus virions running around smiting us after midnight like angry gremlins. Every new policy can be met with reductio ad absurdum – for instance, a million carousing fornicatory students have arrived back on campus yet I can’t set a foot in a theatre. At this rate, we’ll be forced to put plays on illegally like raves in a warehouse. But by the time you read this the rules may have changed yet again – this year Boris Johnson has done more ueys and handbrake turns than a getaway driver.

     What I find really disturbing about our new regime is the concealment of reality. A friend of mine worked as a deep-cleaner during lockdown and was instructed by his boss to run into local surgeries without being seen, lest he alarm people with his hazmat suit. I’ve heard of undercover cops, but undercover cleaners? He told me the job was like being in a horror movie, entering dark buildings armed with a spray gun against an invisible foe.

     This year, our world has truly gone mad - who’d have thought Sinn Fein’s ‘Ourselves Alone’ would sound so appropriate for this time? Where I stand right now is, as a writer, I need to go out and find new stories; if I can’t go out and see drama, I will bring it into my home. I’ll do my best to maintain distancing but I’m not here on this earth to live a half-life or slink around in a twilight world. The truth is that nearly everyone I know has broken a lockdown rule at some point.

     Now that the arts have thankfully been allocated 29 million funding, it’s time for theatres to open their doors and produce Covid-safe shows like Kabosh’s The King of East Belfast. It’s been ironic to see Arlene Foster and Michelle O’Neill stand on a stage when for us it’s impossible. It’s the preferential treatment of all other sectors over the arts sector that’s been galling, but this is our chance to prove our worth. Whether or not you agree with Van Morrison, the point he makes is that in this new society where science is so unreliable, art can console and uplift. Theatres, to my mind, are as important as hospitals. Doctors may heal the body, but writers can heal the soul.

Rosemary Jenkinson’s new collection of short stories, Lifestyle Choice 10mgs, is available at www.doirepress.com.