WHAT’S obvious right now is that all the world isn’t a stage at all. Thanks to Zoom, it’s our front room, where, in the past seven weeks we’ve played out the seven stages of our lives on video calls.

The Infant: As one of the mewling, puking weans I’m crying a lot because my little world has buckled like the front wheel of my little Triang trike.

We need a father figure to reassure. Uncle Boris may be daddy to lots of little people, but here comes the commanding, emphatic Professor Jason Leitch. He’s Morgan Freeman with an Airdrie accent. “We’ve listened to the science,” he says repeatedly until we know those words off by heart – without ever knowing what they mean.

The Whining Schoolboy: I can read now, but that’s a bad thing because I want answers from the teacher. I’m not being taught the lessons of South Korea and Hong Kong. If I could catapult a couple of dried peas in the form of tricky questions at the back of his head I would. Instead, I’m staring out the window, sulking, knowing I won’t be splashing in that Magaluf pool anytime soon.

The Teenage Lover. Shakespeare spoke of sighing like a furnace and thanks to lockdown, that’s me all over. With the libido in lockdown, watching Normal People hasn’t helped at all. Romance is a thing of the past. Like powdered potato. Like Elton’s voice.

For some strange reason I’ve developed a fixation with the memory of my sister’s pal who I fancied at school. And weather presenter Lucy Verasamy. But my real love affair is with Piers Morgan. In fact, with anyone who is asking the tough questions.

I’ve also developed a surprise affection for the late Bob Monkhouse, considering I always reckoned him to be an oleaginous snake oil salesman, almost entirely lacking in empathy.

Having read the comedian’s autobiography this week, Monkhouse reveals himself to be an oleaginous, empathy-bereft snake oil salesman. But I love the fact he’s offering the unalloyed truth. Perhaps because when I watch our FM’s daily briefing I realise it’s in such short supply.

The Soldier: I don’t have the Shakespearean beard but I’m ready to fight the fight – with anyone. That’s because the enemy is everywhere. It’s the fat, wheezy bloke next to the fish fingers fridge in Tesco. It’s the sweaty joggers who are running by that little bit too close. It’s the couple holding hands and holding onto the entire pavement space. It’s the dog that’s just run out in front of my bike which could well have Covid on his collar. I want a pump action gun and I want it filled with hand sanitiser so I can blast at everyone who is not two metres away. Except Lucy Verasamy.

The Judge: I’m now the giver of wise advice. I realise I know way more than Professor Leitch and I can advise the nation as such.

I can also judge the BBC’s Dan Walker to be a crawly bum-licker, when he boasts of attracting Dominic Raab onto his BBC breakfast programme, on the basis he won’t be asked any difficult Covid questions.

The Pantaloon: This was 16th century slang for an old man, but I’ve felt like buying pantaloons recently. Thanks to lockdown, our only release (drink apart) is the Amazon purchase, so a pair of crazy jogging bottoms aren’t that far off the scale. (In April, Amazon sales rocketed to $11,000 a second). I’m betting they’ll look good. Lucy will love me in pantaloons.

Second Childhood: We’re babies again. Innocents in the nappies we like to refer to as joggers. We can’t communicate with strangers except to clap our hands (on Thursdays). Some of us think it’s OK to drink bleach.

But there’s a comfort. Mummy and Daddy (Nicola and Jason) have learned how to look after us now, to keep us safe from nasty people. So we can love them.

Yet, in my second childhood I’m crying again. Inside.

I’m crying out for a public inquiry. I won’t get it quickly but meantime I’ll make do with a pub or a café opening anytime soon

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