Reflecting on the end of it all as Covid curbs bite into London



[ad_1]

Big and purple as a sunburned halibut, Harry was sitting at the window as usual, a bottle of rosé in an ice bucket on the table in front of him. Some other customers had been to the little Italian restaurant overnight, but Harry and I were the only tables left.

The owner would tell my guest how busy the place used to be and how illustrious the clientele was, listing former ministers, MPs, judges and bureaucrats, and a local gentleman and lady.

“Actually, she is dead,” he said.

“He is also dead,” said his wife.

It hadn’t been a bad night by today’s standards, but when I asked him how many there were the night before, he said there were none.

“There was a takeout,” his wife said.

“They were on the other side of the street and they were afraid to go in because of the rule of six. But there were only four. “

They were crossing the table with each other, sharing strong, right-wing opinions on current affairs and exchanging blunt jokes.

The rule of six, which was introduced in England two weeks ago, means that, in general, no indoor or outdoor gathering can have more than six people. Boris Johnson was confused when asked to explain it this week, then apologized for making a mistake, with takeout customers apparently thinking it meant that there could be no more than six people in a public or private space.

“Damn ridiculous,” Harry said from the window.

For years, Harry came here every Monday and Thursday with another man, a burly figure with slicked-back hair that looked like one of the Kray twins who had gone to seed. They were crossing the table with each other, sharing strong right-wing views on current affairs and exchanging blunt jokes.

[ad_2]