Something odd happened one night last week. For the first time in more than 16 Covid-ridden months I went to a cocktail party. It was a businesswomens networking thing, on a rooftop in the middle of London, and it was by turns cheering, daunting and deeply uncomfortable.
The sight of so many new faces, eagerly knocking back free champagne, was undeniably pleasing. This was offset by the discouraging reminder that any one of them could have been breathing viral disaster up my nose or vice versa. There was also the alarmingly accomplished guest list of executives, directors, movers and shakers. And me.
Still, a lot of us were equally and painfully awkward on account of having to totter about on high-heeled shoes that had gone unworn for more than a year.
Afterwards I realised the whole thing felt strangely familiar for a reason I could not pinpoint, until it dawned on me there was one topic I scarcely heard mentioned the whole evening: the pandemic.
That reminded me of another gathering, also involving drink, with friends in a Melbourne pub early last year. It was only weeks after the city had been blanketed in thick grey smoke from one of the 21st centurys biggest wildfires.
The air had been foul. Face masks were selling out. Flights were delayed and a tennis player collapsed at the Australian Open after a coughing fit. Outside the city people had fled to beaches beneath unearthly blood-red skies to escape blazes that left large tracts of the country in a state of blackened, smoking ruin.
But in the pub that night we talked of work, family, other friends and more. Everything except the fires. When I asked why, a friend smiled and said: Theyre over now. Weve moved on.
