BY ROSEMARY GORING

Has any prisoner counted the days to freedom more eagerly than those of us caged by coronavirus? The minimal loosening of restrictions a couple of weeks ago led to snaking queues to bulk buy bedding plants and family reunions in parks and gardens, one eye on the rain clouds. Yet while these small liberties were a welcome step in the right direction, they hardly represented resurgent consumerism or giddy, carefree socialising.

Our nearby garden centre, a well-run operation, insists on hand sanitation before you enter, and sends customers up, down and across the aisles by luminous arrows, as if playing snakes and ladders. If only it were that much fun. Unable to browse without creating a traffic jam, and surrounded by so many masks it could be a dental hygienists’ convention, all pleasure has gone.

Now, we are on the cusp of phase two lift-off, scheduled for June 18. Unless you are in the shielded category, this will allow two households to meet indoors, or socially distanced drinkers and diners to sup in beer gardens and at pavement tables. Home improvers who have been doodling plans for loft conversions can at last call in the Light Brigade.

Around the time schools resume in August, it’s likely that there will be a widespread return to something approximating normality. In theory at least. The worry is that, if the grim weekly supermarket trip offers any guide, the new normal might feel almost as disturbing as our current lockdown. The sight of medicalised faces, half hidden beneath WWII gas masks or snorkels; the constant need to self-disinfect – a breeding ground surely for a generation of obsessive compulsives; the notices and tannoyed reminders that you or others in the vicinity could be unwitting transmitters of a potentially fatal disease – none of this is conducive to a sense of relaxation or safety. And yet, unless there is a surge back to our old ways, the economy will slide even further into the abyss. It’s hard not to feel a moral obligation to help businesses get back on their feet.

Some weeks ago, I contemplated what I was most looking forward to doing when we emerged from purdah. Apart from meeting family and friends, top of the list was going for a coffee, closely followed by a day in the library. If to this could be added an early evening drink in the pub, possibly planning our next trip to Italy, I would ask nothing more. What a thrilling lifestyle, you must be thinking. Yet I’m probably not alone, during these eerily frozen weeks, in realising how narrow and predictable the margins of my life are, and happily so.

They say it takes six weeks to form a habit, so perhaps we will get used to the protocols protecting us when we enter the classroom, or train, or go shopping for clothes. It might become second nature to dine behind plastic screens on the bistro table, or to stay three steps away from our nearest and dearest, even in their own homes. And in one respect at least I’m looking forward to making my own mask. In winter I resemble a figure in a John Bellany painting, my nose ice cold and red raw. A fleecy face-covering could save on central heating.

Even as the danger of infection diminishes, the sobering reality is that fear will persist for a considerable time. To expect to gather in a cafe as we used to, drawing up chairs to crowd around a table, is to day-dream. Almost nothing will be the same as in the good old days, or at least not at first. In the months ahead we will either have to accustom ourselves to new and uncomfortable regulations and rules, or stay housebound.

There’s little doubt, though, that seeing the ties that bind us being slowly slackened is a huge psychological boost. As you’ll have guessed, I’m not Melrose’s answer to Marco Polo. When Ryanair’s engines begin to roar, it won’t be me you’ll see in the duty free. Yet the mere fact of being banned from travelling more than five miles from home is what has felt so constricting in recent times, even if, like me, you’re usually quite happy staying within easy walking distance of your door.

As we go through the gradual phases of our staggered release, like a barge inching through a lock, simply knowing that we can go wherever we like will come as a tremendous relief. Who cares if we must be home by bedtime? Just glimpsing somewhere different will be excitement enough. It marks the restoration of a basic human liberty. And, as our leash lengthens, so spirits will lift. The invisible cordon sanitaire that has been restraining us in will vanish, and to a large degree our lives will feel like our own again.

Yet while we yearn to get back to our old haunts, elements of the crisis have shown a better way, which hopefully will endure. The rise in walking and cycling signals a serious cultural shift. Along with the upturn in home deliveries, it might indicate the beginning of the end for the car. Even where I live, in the country, the air is cleaner, the roads emptier, the birds louder. The outpouring of care and concern shown across the nation for neighbours and those in need has strengthened people’s connection to their community. More of us have been shopping or ordering locally, and discovering what’s on our doorstep. Some have been baking their own bread, or cooking from scratch, and discovering the humdrum but satisfying joys of home life. Looking to the uncertain future, a few are on their way to becoming self-sufficient.

As we gradually emerge into a freer existence, carrying hand sanitisers the way Clint Eastwood holstered a Colt 45, one thing seems certain. We won’t take anything for granted again. The simplest of activities have already assumed a profound significance. To call something ordinary or normal will soon be the highest terms of praise. I never thought a weekend Americano in our nearest cafe would be a red-letter day. Add to that the possibility – oh the glamour! – of a cheese and chive scone and there, on a plate, is proof of how wonderful life can be.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald