I am a born worrier, a catastrophist. I rarely look on the bright side as the worst case scenario usually clouds my view.
I’m a “Yeah, but what if....” stress-head and my friends have all learned to sigh and say “Bletch, it will all be FINE.”
I get it from my dad, who would fret about the past, present and future. He spent one sleepless night trying to remember how people managed when snowed in after the war.
So “forget the winter of 1947” became family shorthand for “time to get a grip”.
But, while the world panics over coronavirus, my worry gene appears to have undergone a mutation.
I am strangely calm and still have only two rolls of bog paper and one can of baked beans in the cupboard.
While others are frenziedly poring over graphs, discussing herd immunity and “squashing the sombrero” I honestly don’t feel frightened.
“Aren’t you scared yet?” asked one bemused colleague. When I shrugged she snapped: “Well, that’ll change when your loved ones die.”
Of course my feelings would change if someone dear to me died.
Like thousands of people already suffering the crushing loss of a relative to Covid-19.
But it is still a statistically slight possibility. I’m not in denial. Nor am I being fatalistic. I just think my natural instinct to catastrophise has been quelled by the scale of this global health crisis.
Life is going to change dramatically for all of us at home, at work and throughout our communities. And we will not be able to cope if we are crippled by fear and blinded by panic.
We need to focus on the advice of experts and take responsibility for our own health in order to protect others.
We can also help to quell others’ worry by showing some community spirit.
By checking up on our neighbours, particularly the elderly, and forming volunteer groups to help the isolated.
It’s how we Brits have always coped.
And if Dad were still here today I’d be able to set his mind at rest.
By reminding him THAT’S how they coped in the winter of 1947.
