People who flooded along the streets, packed as close to one another that you could count the eyelashes of each of their neighbours. The viral decimator does not exist to them in their minds. Threats don’t matter when they want to celebrate the end of a war the overwhelming majority of them never knew.
There is a party on my street celebrating VE-Day that I’m deliberately avoiding by sitting on a deckchair, here in my back garden, with a cool Corona beside me. I can hear the polite cacophony of middle-class jubilation well enough from here. Laughter, the occasional calls for ‘cheers!’, and an endless loop of music from generations before mine. Vera Lynn has sung The White Cliffs of Dover around nine times during this afternoon, and doubtless many more times elsewhere.