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I was already facing an overload of personal grief. Then the killing of George Floyd opened up generational wounds
At the beginning of lockdown I had this fantasy, like a lot of other people, that I would have time to tidy my house, give it a spring clean, pick up my violin and learn to play it again, and rest my soul. But it is hard to fathom how much sad news we would all face. As for so many other people, every morning – with its former routine of getting ready, having an hour’s trip into work – was disrupted. I could just have a quick shower and put on a top half for the meetings. I would roll out of bed and on to the computer, and there I would stay until I was called by the grumblings of my belly to get something to eat. And I would not leave the computer until 9pm or 10pm. I had to keep going: I could feel the desperation in the voices of the people I spoke to.
The death rate in my constituency of Brent was going up. I was speaking confidentially to doctors who informed me, in great depth, of the full range of coronavirus symptoms and the dangers of the disease, attacking the brain, the heart, the lungs, the kidneys. I had to digest that information and manage my role as an MP and a member of society. It was quite a heavy burden. Continue reading...