NO one had been clapping for carers in my street. It felt very awkward, each Thursday at 8pm, to stick my nose out to see what was going on and find... nothing.

We're very near an ambulance station so the silence began to feel pointed, although that might have been lockdown paranoia and the weeks-long lack of human contact kicking in.

I'd seen images in London of bridges lined with non-medical emergency service staff applauding their NHS colleagues and so, when one evening I saw a fire engine facing the ambulance station with its blue lights swirling in the dusk, I assumed they were there to give a wee chapeau to the paramedics and drivers.

"How lovely," I thought to myself, "So nice," as I grabbed my phone to run outside and video this little tableau of appreciation.

It was only once I was outside that the smell of smoke hit and I realised, in fact, the fire fighters were... fighting a fire.

I'm not sure if that's a marker of my own lockdown brain rot or some kind of metaphor. Perhaps both.

Last to the party, it was just a couple of weeks before the winding down of the weekly Clap For Carers that some folk finally appeared with a pot and pan to let NHS staff know we were thinking of them.

I saw videos on social media from streets further over and in neighbouring communities where there was a rainbow in every window, bright colours chalked along pavements and residents hollering their hearts out.

One evening I was out running in our local park as it hit 8pm and fireworks could be seen shooting from the top of a towerblock on the other side of the city. It made me emotional, as I joined in the clapping, but also made me think of our office cake club.

It started off as a lovely thing to do to care for and bond with one another but quickly became a competitive exercise where the cakes grew from being jam sandwiches to eight tier confections that required a forklift, rather than a fork.

Throughout the pandemic thus far - and crikey, that's not a sentence I had every predicted typing - the national attitude to the NHS has been fascinating to watch. From centenarian Captain-now-Sir Tom Moore pootling round his garden to the tune of £33 million for the NHS to folk turning their dining rooms into garment factories as they churned out scrubs to those who delivered food to hospitals for the staff.

There were many articles in the press explaining exactly what Captain Sir Tom's money was going to be used for, and I wonder how many of those who donated really thought that far ahead. The donations were for the health service's charitable wing, NHS Charities Together. Did the majority check first or did they just want to do something "for the NHS"?

It's been fascinating but also slightly discomforting to watch the nation rally round the health service, this behemoth institution that is at once a publicly funded basic necessity and also a sainted icon that we feel gratitude towards.

Not everyone will spend time in hospital or need more than a few annual trips to the GP. We try not to think about how limited our years are and how critical or chronic illness could affect any one of us at any time. Yet here's a virus that really does not discriminate, manifesting itself in a variety of ways, and with no cure. It's helpful, in such a powerless situation, to think of doctors and nurses as saints or heroes, healing the sick with powers not available to us mere mortals.

This isn't a particularly helpful view, giving rise, as it does, to unrealistic expectations of what medics might achieve and how they achieve it. Having spent a lot of time in various hospitals, I can tell you that some nurses are quick tempered and unpleasant, some doctors are patronising and unpleasant.

Others are empathetic, kind, courageous and routinely go beyond the call of duty. Because they are human and all humans have off days and changeable temperaments.

It's been interesting to ask NHS staff about this suddenly swelling of national feeling towards the health board. Some, usually the aforementioned empathetic and kind, have said they are acutely aware that while food parcels are being dropped off to them, they are the lucky ones. Their jobs have never been more secure and they have the same income they had before the coronavirus crisis.

They know that others have lost wages and could far more benefit from the generosity.

While cards, letters, pictures and gifts are hugely appreciated, I was told, they can mean additional work from staff who feel obliged to let donors know their gifts are appreciated. Repurposing unused food donations is another bite in to time that could be better used.

When you give a gift, no matter how good hearted, you also place a burden on the recipient of that gift - the burden of expressing gratitude. There's ample time for that, say, on Christmas Day or at a birthday party. In the middle of a pandemic when you're exhausted from a 60 hour week, not so much.

Many people feel helpless and they feel anxious and they feel bored or purposeless. This is a crisis unique in that the best course of action is inaction. Politics is divided, splintering debates abound over the exact length of social distancing - one metre or two - or how fast or slow we should be easing out of lockdown.

The NHS has been the one focus of national unity and a place where those who are frightened may direct their fears; those who feel useless may direct their energy; those who feel frustrated may focus their irritations.

It makes absolute sense that people have cleaved to the NHS in a time of crisis. But what now? Instead of gifts, now is time to ask what our health service and those who work in it truly need. The best gift is a vote for politicians who will prioritise and protect the NHS.

When the crisis lessens and people move to sorting personal priorities, rather than collective concerns, let's not forget this mass mobilisation of concern for the health service but keep the momentum rolling to the ballot box.

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