A WORRYING trend has been developing of late. Obviously, there’s the Covid figures – the escalation of cases is terrifying. However, I’m really hating how people are starting to turn on each other.
leasantries seem to have gone out the window, and the term “be kind” has become something of a myth.
While bad manners were always a thing, there was a temporary reprieve during the first lockdown.
People were saying hello to their neighbours, strangers were carrying out random acts of kindness and, despite the fact we all felt as if the world was caving in, people were just generally being mindful of others.
Amid all the craziness it was lovely, and I had hoped it was something that would continue.
Sadly, Covid fatigue has well and truly kicked in.
People are fed-up with being nice. They’re frustrated with everything and everyone and are actively seeking others to vent their anger on.
As our British cousins are asked to snitch on neighbours having house parties, I worry that we could also become so mean-spirited that we all start ringing the gardaí on each other for having relatives over in the garden.
Let’s not forget, your neighbours will still be your neighbours when this pandemic ends.
I’m not suggesting we turn a blind eye to raves or certain pubs that break the rules, but having been in town last Friday night before all indoor eating places had to close, I can tell you the place wasn’t that busy and I felt very safe.
Of course, I saw that large gathering of young people on South William Street from that bar that’s well known for attracting singletons.
However, as gardaí were already in the area, I didn’t feel the need to alert anyone or shoot a video and post it online.
I mean, did anyone feel better for seeing that group of twenty-somethings huddled on the steps of the Powerscourt Centre?
To be honest, I was glad I went out.
It was good for the soul, and it was good to be able to support a business I care about.
As always, we wore our masks in the taxi into town, when walking into the restaurant and when walking to the loo. As a germaphobe, I felt very safe at our socially-distanced table.
At the end of the night we would normally have booked a taxi home from the restaurant. However, my husband suggested a walk up Grafton Street, because, in his words: “Who knows when we’ll get to do this again?”
I must admit I wasn’t the better for that experience. I counted at least six rough sleepers, while a lone trumpeter played some of the saddest songs going to a backing track.
By the time he belted out Louis Armstrong’s What A Wonderful World, I needed to make my exit.
Oh, how I miss people smiling.