WHAT TO DO IN JERICHO DURING LOCKDOWN

It starts with an unseen kid crossing out the ‘C’ on the Canal Street sign.

Indoors, there’s no need to iron because there’s no-one to witness the un-ironed. Or the un-hoovered, the un-dusted and the un-scrubbed. The would-be witnesses are all on Zoom and Facetime and WhatsApp and Skype, on Houseparty and Kast and Messenger and Safari, so the unfinished can be censored by a lens or a key. The unbelieved can be monitored by you and me – again and again, as the waiting goes on. The cushions lie un-patted, the beds unmade, the washed unfolded. The waiting repeats and repeats. The living witnesses hold off, trapped in cells with their own un-ironed, un-dusted and unmade, unseen. They live in fear of being un-Skyped, un-Zoomed, unable to withstand the pain, the unknown…

Meanwhile, on one of many balconies, a frightened adult is too unhinged to offer the kiss of life to a fading, fevered old neighbour in the untended garden below. The sad old man fades further – unloved, un-helped, unaided – on his unkempt, unhallowed ground.

In the night, the kid crosses out the 'S' in 'Street' and writes ‘obseen’ on a darkened wall.

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