A CHAP IN QUARANTINE

Chap Life

A CHAP IN

Brendan Kavanagh recounts a tale of survival with suitably Chappish standards during a period of lawful incarceration in a quarantine hotel

At the time of Dante, what was understood of the ancient texts was that there were stories which began well and ended badly, and these were tragedies. Conversely, those which started badly and ended well were comedies. Dante’s tale of the journey to the Divine was thus a Comedy. Dante himself simply called his poem a Comedy, the Divine title being added later by others.

My tale is thus a comedy, embracing the terrestrial rather than the celestial; it is a history, exploring the practical, the ethical and the sensible response to the absurd, a discourse on the role of reason and the individual in society. “My fellow inmates and I were asked to fill out a form; one fellow was promptly released with great ceremony as he was evidently undertaking work of great importance. It transpired that he was a vending machine mechanic”

The successful conversion of breakfast into a proper repast

Midway through my journey in this life I found myself in a dark wood, lost, with the right way completely gone. More specifically, I was travelling from Melbourne back to Sydney. At the time of the Unpleasantness, such a journey required a travel permit and, being a law-abiding soul, I had obtained one. It clearly stated that I was allowed to enter the State of New South Wales unhindered, subject to certain conditions – I was to proceed directly to my home, self-isolate for 14 days, demonstrate that I was free of Covid-19, etc, etc – whereafter I was free to wander the streets unfettered.

I arrived in Sydney and manfully proffered my permit with a cheery smile, whose effect was diminished by a mask, and was met with blank indifference, bordering on insolence.

“Why are you here?” The questions progressed with more complexity.

“What was I going to do and did it justify my being there?”

“Was it, or I, or anyone, truly of any importance or worth?”

I was initially both impressed and taken aback. I hadn’t realised that border control officers dallied in the area of epistemological speculation.

The hotel ‘lunch’ converted into a luncheon

However, it was soon clear that their interest was not so much an investigation into the reason as to why I was there, and was more accurately an expression of the fact that they wished I was somewhere else; more specifically, they wished I was anywhere else except there.

I live in Sydney and possessed a governmentissued permit entitling me to be there. These facts, I was told, were wholly inconsequential; they were simply an amuse bouche at what was to prove to be a demonic feast of indecision. I was informed that they were fully entitled to ask for anything that they might deem necessary, so as to make (or more accurately remake) a decision as to whether I could or should be there.

There followed a day of nonsense that would have driven a lesser man to homicidal rage. Each moment led to a potential decision which within a moment could be reversed. The vagaries of the situation were Byzantine. My fellow inmates and I were asked to fill out a form; one fellow was promptly released with great ceremony, for he was evidently undertaking work of great importance. It transpired that he was a vending machine mechanic.

My role as an expert working on a task worth several hundreds of millions of dollars, fulfilled in complete isolation in my apartment, was adjudged to be of lesser importance and of higher risk than ensuring that an already obese population had ready access to a supply of confectionary.

After a long day at the airport, watching the health department, police and army personnel completely ignore the basic rules of hygiene and disease control, while randomly crosscontaminating everything they touched and generally acting as an infection distribution centre, a decision was reached. They decided they would decide the next day, but for now I was to go to a police quarantine hotel.

When I asked whether I could be released the next day, when a decision had been made, I was told that once I was in the hotel, I couldn’t be released for 14 days. When asked what the difference was between making a decision to incarcerate me for 14 days and delaying the decision by incarcerating me for 14 days, the cryptic response – delivered by a person who had clearly graduated from the Franz Kafka School of Government Administration – was, “the difference is that we haven’t decided; we’ve decided not to decide.”

“The cryptic response, delivered by a person who had clearly graduated from the Franz Kafka School of Government Administration, was ‘the difference is that we haven’t decided; we’ve decided not to decide’”

The ‘dinner’ provided by the hotel The evening repast provided by my grocer

I was promptly bustled on to a bus and taken to a police quarantine hotel, where I was to be locked up for 14 days without a change of clothing or a book to read, and condemned to eat and drink whatever was pushed in my general direction, presumably at the end of a long pointy stick.

Being a man of standards and resourceful by nature, I had no intention of being cowed into submission. I promptly penned a list of the essentials that would see me through the fortnight, including several sets of linen sheets, several pairs of pyjamas, cotton napkins, a second tweed suit, several ties, an abundant supply of undergarments, socks and shoes, glassware, crockery, cutlery, books, food and wine, all of which a friend gathered together for me and delivered to the hotel soon after I arrived.

In the following days my wine merchant rallied around and began regular deliveries, and every few days my grocer made deliveries of fresh essentials. The hotel manager, on one occasion, called to ask, “What is it you are doing in your room?” to which I replied curtly, but politely, “Living” and hung up the telephone.

My unjust and unreasonable incarceration might have dimmed my spirits, leaving me embittered and vengeful. Abjuring the darker emotions, I knew that I should maintain my dignity and good cheer in the face of the onslaught of unreasoning, unfeeling malice and vulgarity. In keeping to my standards, I would emerge perhaps bloodied but unbowed. Comforted by this conviction, I settled in for my stay.

No ladies of any sort or any temptations were provided for me, nor were there any angelic visitations. The only thing that was provided was food, though I use the word loosely.

Thus my 14 days passed and at the end, having been proven to be in sound health, despite the best efforts of all involved, I packed my worldly goods and was followed by a phalanx of porters to a car to make my journey home. I emerged from the strictures of my incarceration a deeper, wiser man, a man more ready to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with equanimity. A man perhaps more attuned to the Divine and the comical, as is surely the duty of any of us in journeying through this life. n

John Hepburn commences leather tanning in Bermondsey

1760

Samuel Barrow & Brother is formed

1848

Hepburn & Gale merges with Ross & Co

1901

Make and supply saddles, belts and cases offi cers and soldiers during the Great War to

1914

Hepburn & Gale merges with Samuel Barrow to become Barrow, Hepburn & Gale & Brother

1920

Continue to make and supply offi cial Dispatch Boxes, notably for government Churchill as Secretary of State

1921

Major contribution to the war effort, notably “L” Detachment, Special Air Service Brigade

1939

HRH Princess Elizabeth proclaimed Queen Elizabeth II and offi cially photographed with her Dispatch Boxes

1953

Proper Chaps Carry Proper Bags. Proper Bags From Barrow Hepburn & Gale.

‘Barrow, Hepburn & Gale have been making travel goods for generations, and although fashions are constantly on the change, their quality has always been superlative. They are supplied not only to the home market, but the whole world, for the good reason that British craftsmanship in this class of goods has always been admired. At a time when a fl ourishing export trade is absolutely essential to the country’s survival, no manufacturer can do his country a better service than to produce goods so well made and designed that they may properly be called ambassadors of goodwill.’

Everything In Leather – The Story Of Barrow Hepburn & Gale, published in 1948.

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