The flip side, hope, and the medicinal value of possibility

The first time I ever experienced sharp, unexpected disappointment was probably around the age of seven or eight, when I used our family dog’s lead to try and “walk” Penny, one of our pet cats, and she ran so fast, I was left holding a long, slack lead attached to her empty collar. There you have it — cats will let you down! But not nearly as much as the rest of the world, it turns out.

The first general election I voted in was in 2015. My vote was for a Labour led by Ed Miliband; you could say a bacon sandwich and biased media lost us that round. I’ve since witnessed the British public consistently support a career buffoon who appears to brush his hair with a balloon and hides from the truth in fridges. In fact, it seems like the only thing Boris Johnson has ever genuinely tried his hand at is lying — both in journalism and politics. This is a man whose approach to losing an argument is “Throwing a dead cat on the table, mate, because who cares if the facts are overwhelmingly against you? There’s a dead cat on the table!” Moving on! Etc.

Since 2015, disappointment is a feeling I’ve become overwhelmingly familiar with. Like so many others, I barely had time to recover from the cruel 52% ‘Leave’ majority in the 2016 EU referendum, before I was stunned by the result of the 2016 American presidential election. I mean, we were all still hoping then, weren’t we? The last time I felt real, heart-warming, perhaps-goodness-still-exists-in-people’s-hearts and maybe, just maybe, we could all take a step towards a fairer, more inclusive society was when I cast my ballot for Jeremy Corbyn in 2019. He’s still the Prime Minister of my heart. I have cardboard cut-outs of him and his cat in my bedroom — big ‘cat’ theme throughout this, isn’t there? A-Level English Literature never really leaves you. I broke up with my boyfriend of five years just two months before that election — and yet, not-waking-up-because-I-didn’t-sleep-that-night to another Tory victory remains my biggest heartbreak of 2019.

In the spirit of a voting career akin to being aboard a train I never bought a ticket for, hurtling towards total social despair with seemingly no rest stops, the political landscape may be depressing as hell — but hey, at least it’s consistent! Almost 18 months after Corbyn’s loss, my life is punctuated by perpetually distressing headlines describing a country where racism is rife — presided over by a government whose response to a global pandemic is a terrifying cycle of indecision, corruption, repeat.

So, can you blame me if, when Boris rolled out his road map to recovery towards the end of last month, the primary feeling that took hold of my body was fear? Fear for vulnerable people who’ve spent the past year in a constant state of the very same emotion. For doctors, nurses, receptionists, cleaning staff, and the rest of the NHS workers who’ve arguably been drafted into a war — of which the odds were never in their favour. For BAME communities, who have and will continue to suffer disproportionately at the hands of a deadly virus and a society unwilling to protect them. For the economically vulnerable, and a dangerous wealth gap that’s only increasing. I could go on.

Of course, there’s a flip side to all this. Not quite a silver lining, but a flip side all the same. And if I’ve learned anything in the past six years, it’s “Thank God for the flip side”. Easing lockdown restrictions will allow furloughed hospitality staff to return to work. It’ll give us some semblance of — sorry to use one of those phrases — normal life. It’s a step towards healing one of the biggest collaterals of the pandemic — loneliness. In the same vein, it’s a chance to reverse some of the devastating impact this year has had on people’s mental health. So, we’re back to that feeling millions of us said goodbye to in 2019. Hope. The hardy little life-jacket that’s briefly buoyed us all against tide after tide of disappointment. And you know what? I’m zipping up again — because, as one of my friends rightfully pointed out to me recently, don’t we all deserve a bit of cautious optimism?

What would you give right now for someone to grab you by the shoulders, brush your hair from your face, look you in the eye, and tell you, “Everything is going to be okay”? Sadly, past the age of about 11, this is a pretty rare occurrence — and when it does happen, it’s fairly inadvisable to have absolute faith in the outcome. But sometimes the best kind of friend is someone who’ll tell you whatever you need to hear in a particular moment. So, this is me brushing the hair from your face as best I can – after all, this is a virtual conversation, and you could be bald for all I know — and telling you it’s okay to hope.

There exists a future where we’ll indulge in far too much antipasti and just as many mixer cans in the park with our friends. Nature will eventually heal, and all the weird sporty people will return to local tennis courts and make those questionable grunting sounds while volleying a tiny ball back and forth. You’ll be able to while away the days spent lusting after dresses between paydays by going steady with them in changing rooms. We’ll all finally have haircuts that don’t resemble Jon Bon Jovi’s circa 1985!

The aforementioned fresh trims will be unveiled during candlelit dinners with those continental complimentary bread baskets. There’ll be draught pints of Guinness! You’ll once again sit in a darkened cinema screen, and your most pressing worry will simply be whether or not the person sat in the row ahead is a snacks snob who’ll have something to say about your packets rustling. Live music where the bass begins in your toes will return. We’ll finally dance to ‘Chromatica’ in the club, and the most special, sweaty, beautiful nights will be heartfelt tributes to SOPHIE. We’ll all stumble home together — out of step but arm in arm — before rolling in at 6am, collapsing onto our beds, and breathing a huge fucking sigh of relief. This is all coming so soon. Everything is going to be okay.