The Bare Bones of it!

Whatever you might think of our current Government - and I imagine my readers will vary in their opinions from 'utter rubbish' to 'doing a fine job' - the range of styles through which our government has swung down the years is very broad indeed.  For a short while in 1653, this country was ruled by a nominated assembly that became known collectively as Barebone's Parliament.

It was named after one of London's appointees, Praise-God Barebone (or Barbon), and first sat on 4th July of that year. It consisted of 140 men selected by Cromwell and his Army Council and couldn't be described as remotely representative, being mostly drawn from the rich and famous with a sprinkling of tradespeople and members of an extreme puritan sect called Fifth Monarchists.  Apart from half a dozen each from Ireland, Scotland and Wales, the rest were all from the English counties.  On 12th December - just 161 days later - it broke up in disarray, being unable to agree on anything.  

Having explained my title, I'll now move on to something more relevant to today.  If our present lock-down in one form or another lasts until the end of August, it will have existed for the same length of time as Barebone's Parliament and, in some ways, it has - at the outset, at least - brought us back to the bare bones of life.  We've come to realise just what is - and what is not - essential to our existence.  

This is different for each of us, of course, and its definition has morphed as the weeks have passed.  After securing a reliable source for food, medication and other necessities, one thing after another has been added to that early definition of 'essential to life'.  Disciplines, vital and well-heeded at the beginning, have slipped.  We've exchanged ideas with our friends and neighbours; isolation has been relieved by Zoom and other technologies.  Social media and the more widespread news channels have made us aware of what else is possible and - for good or ill - following the principle of 'if they can do that, then so can we' has become commonplace.

The challenge presented by the Covid-19 pandemic has often been described as a war; the strategies advised and imposed to overcome it as 'weapons to fight this unseen enemy' and so on.  While it's not the sort of war that can be fought by armies on a battlefield, there is, I suggest, a similarity to the privations of daily life on the home front.  I'm not old enough to remember the Second World War but I've just finished reading a novel set in 1942 that has, in some measure, made real for me many of the restrictions that had by then become part of everyday life.

Then as now ways were found, some legal and some not, to get around the constraints of the time.  Substitutes were developed and discovered for foodstuffs no longer available; a black market grew up to overcome the strict rationing that had to be imposed and make-do-and-mend became a way of life.  In one poignant scene, an old man, who had been involved in a dramatic rescue from a bombed hotel, arrived home in the small hours, raided the larder and enjoyed a slap-up meal before collapsing still dressed and exhausted onto his bed, falling into a deep and well-earned sleep.  His daughter-in-law, whose house it was, discovered the debris in the kitchen the next morning, found half the week's rations gone, and was understandably furious.

Our present situation is by no means so severe but at times, and perhaps especially so in such fine weather as we have enjoyed this week, there is a need - a desperation, almost - to break out of the restrictions, to let loose and make whoopee, whatever the cost.  But there is a cost, of course.  It might be as simple as going without for a while longer until the larder is refilled, or it could be an unwanted disease, or worse.  And the cost is not always paid by those who have broken free.  Our newsreels this week have shown the tonnes of rubbish that was left on Bournemouth beach and the declaration of a 'major incident' by the local authority so that more help can be engaged to prevent a recurrence.

Yes, this is partly the result of the need people have found to defy the restrictions placed upon them, to stretch to the limit and beyond the bounds on their activities.  But even these could have been carried out responsibly.  Where has our sense of responsibility gone?  When I grew up, there was a saying "What did your last servant die of?"  It wasn't an expression of concern for the well-being of the lower classes; it was an attempt to instil awareness that such people as servants were not part of our lifestyle and that, to an ever-increasing level as we grew older, we had to look after ourselves.  This didn't so much mean providing for our own needs - that would come later - but that if we made mess, strewed things about, then it was down to us to clear up, put away and make tidy, not just for our own comfort and benefit, but for that of others around us too.