Steeped as I am in Anglo-Saxon reserve, I sometimes find myself at serious odds with the times allotted me for my four score and ten. Not for me the incessant sharing of amateur self-portraiture, the eavesdropping on private moments and the social ‘connectedness’ of Facebook, Twitter and the others. I’m wrong-footed too by the emotional emetic that is reality television, the tantrums, the intrigues, the protestations of love, the presumption that viewers, like a fleet of gossipy fish-wives, should actually care about who gets to shag the bachelorette. For me, the joy of a desert island would be getting away from the type of people you see on Survivor.
But it’s even worse than this. I’m one of those poor souls who honestly hates to be touched by other human beings. I grew up with a large extended family on my mother’s side, who seemed to be incapable of meeting each other without re-enacting the wedding scene in The Godfather. Children had to do the rounds of fat aunties and cheery uncles to be kissed, squeezed, prodded, pinched and clasped. At least the Italians have the excuse of being Italian – but they were all Scots-Irish.
Even today I live in mortal terror of the touchy feelies. Those annoying buggers who stand too close in elevators, grab your arm to make a point and expect a hug from you if their cat dies. My personal space is like a night-club with a strict entry policy: only attractive women between the ages of 18 and 50 will be admitted. Sadly the number of clientele has dwindled of late, but that’s middle-age for you.
As we are probably all sick of being told a case of ‘the Chinese virus’ is a serious business. Severe illness and death always are. That doesn’t mean there isn’t an upside. For me at least. This time of social-distancing and self-isolation is a misanthrope’s paradise. If you are at all chary of your fellow man, you will find the empty streets a delight, the one-in-one-out shopping a restful improvement on the mad after work scramble and the lack of invitations to social events a distinct relief.
The reign of the touchy feelies is over. I walk with an invisible but ever-present two-metre barrier around my person mandated by God-queen Jacinda herself. Crossing that has become a serious taboo – a breach of social etiquette, an act of treason and attempted murder, all rolled into one.
Like a Roman Emperor, I now choose (via Skype and texting) whom among my friends and family I grant an audience to. Displease me by tedious or annoying conversation (usually by droning on about the bloody virus) and my internet will inexplicably develop connection problems…(Sorry…I’m losing you…Oh DAMN you’re gone…). No longer do I need to go in to work and face the office bore, the overbearing boss or the guy who whistles loudly and calls everyone ‘champ’. No more the strange awkwardness of the workplace; the passive-aggressive morning greetings, the embarrassing staff meetings, the sadness of birthday morning teas and that uncomfortable feeling of waiting to use the photocopier behind someone whose name you suddenly realise you’ve forgotten completely.
Liberated from all this, we are left with the bliss of solitude and the gift of time. Time to watch, read, listen and reflect. Perhaps this enforced halt on the ever closer union of humanity through globalization and social media networking will bear positive fruit. A bit more individualism. A soupcon more self-reliance. A lot more alone time.
Just to be clear, I don’t want to build my hermit’s utopia on the backs of dead nanas. I’m not glad of the Chinese Virus. It’s just that like those buying stocks in surgical mask companies and toilet paper concerns, it’s paying me a dividend.
I am finally a man for my times.
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