I was standing at a busy motorway services with my little dog, Mindy, observing the heaving masses going in and out.
She had a look of ecstasy on her face. We were outside a Greggs bakery, and the aroma of warm sausage rolls was wafting up her nose.
So, Mindy was fine, but I felt more like Mork.
You remember the Mork and Mindy sitcom, don’t you? Mork was played by the then unknown Robin Williams and it is the 40th anniversary of the last episode this month.
Mork is a bungling alien who lands on Earth to study humans up close. He makes friends with earthling girl, Mindy, and sends comic messages back to his alien commander about human behaviour.
The man from Ork would have a field day here by the motorway. Throngs of travellers were trying to enjoy a quiet relaxing break, which for some meant queueing politely for treats like sausage rolls.
Not much peace in the car park
I wondered how many of these apparently soft-mannered souls were the same snarling demons behind their wheels on the motorway earlier.
They would roar back out again soon, in a kind of primeval Game of Thrones battle for supremacy between the lanes. The road signs might as well point to Winterfell or King’s Landing.
It was like a weird, macho contest of motorised tennis, with one blast lobbed over and another returned
But there wasn’t too much peace and quiet there in the car park. Groups of ageing bikers at one end and boy racers at the other were playing a game of who could rev their engines loudest.
It was like a weird, macho contest of motorised tennis, with one blast lobbed over and another returned. I think the bikers won hands down: they had a gleaming beast – a Honda something-or-other – which sounded like a fighter jet.
Contradictory advice on face masks
I felt like Mork because putting on my face mask made it seem as though I was an alien or outcast. My wife’s parting words, as she looked after Mindy while I strode off for refreshments, were: “Don’t forget your mask.”
We both agreed going totally maskless was an uncomfortable feeling when rubbing shoulders with so many strangers in confined spaces. And especially in awful motorway services loos where people should be disinfected and showered with anti-bacterial agents – even before they go in.
I was conscious of strange looks and second glances coming my way.
Not exactly like a leper in the Gospel of Luke or Erik in Phantom of the Opera, but similar.
The few still wearing masks were massively outnumbered. It’s an odd feeling being the odd one out, especially with Covid spikes all over the place, but we stuck to it.
It’s a shame mask-wearing has been lifted: it was a powerful, symbolic reminder of why we got into this mess in the first place.
Now we have contradictory advice: the mask-wearing law has been removed, but keep wearing them if you can.
A sarcastic safety message about speeding by the Scottish Government caught my eye on a loo wall in the same services. It was something like: “You might have only been a little bit over the limit, but you’ll be a little bit banned as well”.
It made me think: can you imagine speeding laws being dropped and drivers simply advised to avoid going too fast – if they don’t mind and it’s not too much trouble? For some reason, it is OK to do the same thing with masks.
Like living on parallel planets
Tensions remain over this political decision, particularly within the NHS.
A perfect illustration the next day, as I accompanied my wife to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. A week since compulsory face-covering was dropped, yet inside it was like a major convention for mask-wearers.
Security guards made sure everyone crossing the threshold – apart from the medically exempt – donned a surgical mask; there were piles of them on a table nearby. And electronic message boards outside lifts reminded everyone that mask-wearing was still essential.
We were stumbling between two parallel worlds facing different ways on masks.
My mask was steaming up my glasses as I fought to keep a wheelchair in a straight line. I was pushing my wife, but my steering skills were hair-raising.
As a porter passed, I asked for pushing tips, and if I was allowed to take a wheelchair into a lift. “Well, you’d have trouble pushing it up the stairs,” he shot back.
I find humour is a great medicine in hospital. We all laughed out loud; I didn’t know what to say.
Maybe I should have said: “Na-nu, na-nu.” It always worked for Mork.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
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