‘I’ve had enough of it, we’re governed by hypocrites’

A couple of weeks into the first lockdown last year, my mother called in a state of distress. Many of us were in a state of distress last March, of course, but until that moment Mum had seemed to be taking the new normal in her stride. When Boris announced that we all must spend three weeks at home to “squash the sombrero”, Mum was among those who invoked the “Blitz Spirit” (though she was born in 1950) and announced that it would be a doddle to do our bit to save the NHS. She had enough loo roll to last until 2025, having stocked up for a no-deal Brexit. The thing that finally broke her was the announcement that Wimbledon 2020 would not be going ahead.

For as long as I can remember, Mum has spent the first two weeks of July glued to the television, watching the tennis in SW19. When my brother and I were small, Wimbledon fortnight was heaven. We could get away with anything while the tennis was on. Mum wouldn’t have noticed if we lit up Benson and Hedges while sitting next to her on the sofa so long as John McEnroe was playing. In fact, 1980 – when McEnroe met Borg in the Wimbledon men’s final – was the year I first tried smoking, having pinched a single cigarette from Mum’s handbag while she was glued to the third set of the five-set epic. She didn’t even tear herself away from the screen when I had a coughing fit in the garden that drew Mr Ormington from next door out of his shed to see if his first aid training was required.

“I think your daughter’s choking.”

“Typical,” said Mum, hearing the Wimbledon crowd roar at the end of another set as she stood at the door.

Once she had checked that I wasn’t actually dying, Mum went back to the living room, leaving Mr Ormington to ask me what had caused all the spluttering. He generously accepted my explanation that a Spangle had gone down the wrong way while I was hanging upside down on the climbing frame.

Anyway, fast forward 41 years and I was inordinately pleased for Mum to hear that this year’s Wimbledon would be happening. Every little hint of normality feels healing, doesn’t it? Even the rainstorm that hit southwest London the night before the tournament began was a comforting reminder that the world still turns and there’s always a high probability that Wimbledon will be a washout.

As indeed it looked set to be last Monday. These days rain can’t stop play on Centre Court, thanks to the retractable roof, but Covid still had an ace to serve. When Mum called on Monday morning, she was furious that Joanna Konta had had to withdraw from the competition after one of her team tested positive for Covid. “One of our best players, forced to self-isolate, while all those Uefa bigwigs are going to be allowed to waltz into Wembley without quarantine!”

Mum used to be a staunch supporter of lockdown and testing and tracing, but not anymore. Not now the never-ending Covid regulations were coming for her tennis.

“I’ve had enough of it,” she told me. “We’re governed by hypocrites.”

“You’ve only just noticed?”

“None of the rules make any sense any more. They had a stand-up champagne reception at the G7 but next door’s youngest still can’t have singing at her wedding. Then there’s Matt Hancock smooching in the office while, as I told the woman at the newsagent, you’ve managed to go without kissing anyone all year.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

Mum wanted to talk at further length about Matt Hancock. Like many people, she is disgusted by infidelity but my mother is a pragmatic woman, and where I saw a political scandal and a personal tragedy for Hancock’s family and that of his paramour, my mother, as the myth about the Chinese symbol goes, saw opportunity in crisis.

“If Hancock’s girlfriend has to get a divorce – as she should – then there’s a very eligible young man about to come onto the market in Wandsworth. He owns that nice shop where Helena got that lovely candle she gave me for Christmas.”

“How is Helena?” I tried to change the subject onto my sister-in-law but Mum wasn’t finished with her latest Machiavellian plot to get me safely married off again. She suggested that I consider changing the route of my sanity stroll to include the streets around Wandsworth Common, whereby I could work out which was the £4m house pictured in the papers and engineer bumping into the poor cuckolded chap when he stepped out of his front door.

“You’ve got to be quick,” said Mum. “Divorced men coming back onto the market get snapped up in a flash. Long before they end up on the apps.”

“I’m not on the apps.”

“You should be!”

I was saved from a longer lecture by the beginning of play: Djokovic against plucky young Jack Draper, who wasn’t even born when Borg beat McEnroe and I got my first illicit hit of nicotine.

A little later, Glenn the postman knocked. He had an envelope that was too big to go through my letterbox. It was from my Tory goddaughter Caroline. She’d moved quickly in response to Hancock’s resignation, compiling a list of suggestions for his successor Sajid Javid, which surely had to begin with “deep-clean soft-furnishings in meeting room”. I was copied in.

I hadn’t seen Glenn for a while. “I’ve been on holiday,” he said. “North Devon. I’m thinking of moving there. My cousin’s got a camp site. He says he could use the help.”

“Seriously?” I squeaked, in a failed attempt to sound disinterested. Then, with my heart in my mouth. “So we’d better get that drink in quick before you go.”

“Actually,” Glenn looked at his feet. “I was wondering if you might like to go to the ‘FriendsFest’ on Clapham Common?”

FriendsFest. He meant the “experience” dedicated to the Nineties show. I could think of nothing I wanted to do less but all the same I said I’d love to go.