HEY, it’s my birthday today. Another one. If I had the organisational foresight, I would have bought a cake. But then you wouldn’t have been able to see it for all the candles needed.

Don’t worry that you’ve not sent me a card. It’s OK. I don’t really like the attention to be honest (says the guy writing a newspaper column).

This morning, though, I realised that it’s also the anniversary of the first birthday I can actually remember. My eighth, back in 1971.

The past is another country. Literally in this case. Northern Ireland. A day spent running around the back garden of my mum and dad’s council house in Coleraine. Carry On Screaming on the telly. I got two jigsaw puzzles for presents, both of footballers; one a Wolves player (John Richards maybe) and one from Spurs. My footballing loyalties were transitioning to the latter at the time.

What’s strange now is that, blurry and unfocused as my memories of that day are, they’re still much clearer than those of my last birthday of which I can remember nothing at all. Only 12 months ago, yet it’s pretty much a blank.

Maybe that’s a symptom of these Covid times we are living through, where so often one day blends into another. This will be my second pandemic birthday, both of them taking place at a time of an uneasy easing of restrictions.

Last year we were circumspect because we had no immunity (though cases were very low). This year many of us have been vaccinated (I’ve had both of mine), yet Boris Johnson’s policy of throwing caution to the winds in England seems, well, at the very least a bit rash given the rise and rise of cases with the Delta variant.

The gap between caution and impatience is another of the dividing lines in our fractured culture these days. And obviously I tend to err toward the former. Still, I understand the yearning for a return to normality as much as the next person. We have all been robbed of so much – of companionship, of collectivity, of human touch even – since March last year.

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Read More: The Antonine Wall, a history

And yet, in the run of things, two years isn’t long, is it? Yes, it’s more than enough time to change a life (as I know all too well). But, really, in the face of a global pandemic it’s a mere flicker.

This morning I went for my regular walk along a stretch of the Antonine Wall on a rise above the Forth and Clyde Canal. More than 1,800 years ago Roman soldiers (Nervians probably, from southern Belgium) would have manned this earth ditch, and, as I walk, in my head I calculate how many generations separate them from me. 60 maybe? 70? Not so many, really. You could get them all in a single room (remembering to stick to social distancing, obviously).

This moment we are living through is just that. But it might stretch ahead of us for a while. It’s OK to not rush back to how we were. That time will come. Maybe we can all have a proper birthday party next year.