Liz Gardner, a Melbourne-based journalist, on the vibe in Victoria, under curfew.
We joke that we're on the film set of the Truman Show or some dystopian thriller. But no, this is Melbourne in August 2020. The year that's disappearing in a blur of disappointments, rules, regulations and despair.
Melbourne wakes after its first night under curfew – a curfew, what the actual ... did we hear that right? No leaving the house between the hours of 8pm and 5am. Not that we were anyway ... nowhere to go ... but the idea that this is legislated, that police or soldiers (for they are now on city and suburban streets) can stop us, ask questions and issue punitive fines is so foreign. So dark.
We are reminded of the New Zealand success story, the collective effort pulling a country through this global pandemic and out the other side to tentative steps towards recovery. We like to keep this thought front and centre: if our Kiwi brothers and sisters can do it, so can we.
But then ... we've already endured 12 weeks of lockdown. We've been huddled in our homes since March 24, when offices, schools and universities emptied. And don't forget this came on top of a summer scarred by the total and utterly random devastation of bush fires. After a brief few weeks of visiting relatives in the country, eating out in restaurants, having a beer at the pub and pretending everything was back to normal ... BOOM. The virus explodes and here we are. Three weeks into a soft lockdown, the doors slam shut and we're living under curfew for another six weeks. Not even in wartime was such a measure imposed on this city.