When I heard that Boris had partied, as if all the lives lost and sacrifices made during this pandemic had meant nothing. I cried.
(Warning: this post discusses Covid 19, death, and grief)
As I write this post, Boris Johnson is still prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (to give us our long and official title.)
Who knows whether he’ll be prime minister by the time this post goes live, but for now he is prime minister.
He should not be.
I don’t pretend to be able to predict the future — I think we’ve all given up on trying to foresee what comes next — but I hope he resigns.
As he should have done already. So many times over.
Because it turns out, that while the UK was under a variety of Coronavirus restrictions
- including a full-out Lockdown with a ‘Stay At Home’ order in place, where we weren’t supposed to meet up with anyone, socially, from outside our own household -
№10 Downing Street (the prime minister’s residence and office,) and Boris’ staff were having a variety of parties.
Including parties that Boris himself attended.
When I heard that Boris had partied, as if all the lives lost and sacrifices made during this pandemic had meant nothing.
Because when I’m angry — really, truly, bursting-from-the-inside, angry — I burst into tears.
I can’t help it.
And when I thought of Boris and his cronies carrying on as if they weren’t breaking the very rules they made, you can bet I was angry.
I’m still angry.