For the past 4 weeks I’ve managed to studiously avoid
going beyond 2kms of my house. I would rather have root canal treatment –
without anaesthetic – than venture further than my garden right now.
The thought of collecting the shopping conjures up traumatic
childhood memories. When I was five, there was a nun from the Sisters of (no)
Mercy, who made us sit in the wicker rubbish bin if we got a maths question
wrong. I spent an inordinate amount of time in that bosca bruscair, sitting
atop peeled banana skins and Agnes Mc Ginty’s congealed tissues, legs akimbo,
feeling, in equal measure, mortified and petrified. Every morning, I clung to
my mother’s coat tails and begged her to let me stay at home.
I recounted this story to himself, sitting in my office
wicker paper bin for dramatic effect (not the best look in an Easter Bunny
onesie) but he, like the Sisters, showed no mercy. “It’s your turn to collect
the shopping”. It was indeed.
When I saw the check point, I slowed and noticed there
were two gardai standing shoulder to shoulder talking to the driver of a car
coming in the opposite direction. They weren’t standing back, let alone 2
metres. One of the officers gestured for me to open my window. I was so close
to the other car, I could have shook hands with the driver, so, complying with
the gardai’s instruction would have exposed the two officers and both drivers
to the risk of Covid-19 contagion, as
well as breaching social distancing legislation.
Smiling, I reached for my Covid car kit and held up my
handwritten sign asking the Garda to step back 2 metres. He tried, but realised
there was no space to move. Bizarrely, he then gestured for me to get out of
the car, but the other vehicle and officer were still there so I shook my head
and held up my sign again. He eventually went around the passenger side, which
was better, but not quite 2 metres.
Disconbobulated, I opened my mouth and out came the
jarring twang of a Donnybrook banker. There’s only one thing worse than having
a D reg car (luckily I don’t) at a lockdown check point in Galway and that’s
having a Dublin accent (which is ill advised in Galway, irrespective of
lockdown) and even more hazardous again is being found in possession of a D4 inflection,
at a lockdown checkpoint in Galway.
Having split my childhood between a housing estate in
Santry, where Doberman Pinschers doubled up as fashion accessory and personal
security, and the rest of the time tramping hay and footing turf on the
grandparents’ farms in Loughrea and Charlestown respectively, it was far from
D4 that I was reared. Yet, there I was with my frazzled head saying
“grewsareees” (groceries) and “gorda” (which is Spanish for “fat” and
potentially offensive).
To be fair to the garda, he was doing his job in
incredibly stressful circumstances. I have family and friends who are gardai,
nationally, and my thoughts turned to them and their safety. They, like all our
essential workers, have fears like the rest of us, but they still have to go to
work every day. They reassured me that they either stand back 2 metres or speak
to drivers through closed windows.
They were more concerned about PPE, which was
requested by the Garda Representative Association three weeks ago for Gardai on
patrol, a lifetime in a pandemic, but distribution has been slow and haphazard.
Some officers said they had to buy their own hand sanitisers and wipes
initially to clean the patrol car before and after shifts.
Even in Britain, where the government’s handling of
the coronavirus crisis has been shambolic and where PPE is like hen’s teeth,
frontline police officers have received face masks. The police federation of
England and Wales has issued guidance recognising that social distancing cannot
always be maintained, such as when apprehending criminals, presenting an
infection risk to officers, the public and the health service. Therefore, “Face
masks, gloves and hand sanitisers are the absolute basic we would expect our
colleagues to be provided with in this current crisis”
The gardai are fathers and mothers foregoing their
children’s bedtime stories – indefinitely - so that ours can sleep soundly.
They’re delivering food parcels to our vulnerable and checking in on our
elderly, so that we can stay safe at home. While we’re waiting for Charlie
Flanagan to catch up with the rest of the world and protect our gardai who,
like the other emergency services, are putting their lives at risk to protect
us, we can do our bit by staying home and avoiding unnecessary journeys.
Míle buíochas, a Ghárdaí Síochána. Fanaigí
sábháilte.
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