The news arrived with all the subtlety of a soggy baguette to the face. France, that bastion of berets and existential despair, has confirmed its first Ebola case. A French national, returning from Guinea, has been diagnosed with the haemorrhagic fever in a military hospital near Paris. British health authorities, meanwhile, have mobilised their emergency response, which I assume involves stockpiling gin and tutting loudly at the Channel.
Let us pause to appreciate the exquisite irony. France, the land that gave us the phrase "laissez-faire," is now facing a pathogen that does not believe in letting things be. Ebola, the viral equivalent of a divorce proceeding, has breached the Schengen zone. And Britain, having taken the precaution of leaving the EU, now finds itself in the position of a man watching his neighbour's house burn while holding a garden hose and a travel insurance waiver.
Public Health England has announced it is "monitoring the situation closely." This is the same phrase used for a slowly boiling pot of water, but with more acronyms. The official response includes "increased surveillance" at ports and airports. I can only imagine the conversation at Heathrow: "Sir, the thermal scanner has detected a slight temperature elevation in a man carrying a cheese board and a copy of Le Monde." "Right, quarantine him. And for God's sake, don't let him near the duty-free."
The news drops like a stone into a pond of collective anxiety. British newspapers, sensing the scent of a fellow traveller's misfortune, have whipped themselves into a froth. Headlines scream of "Ebola outbreak" and "health emergency" when, in reality, we are dealing with exactly one case. But nuance, like a decent croissant, is often lost in transit.
Let us not forget the historical context. Britain and France have a long and storied rivalry, from the Hundred Years' War to the recent furore over scallop fishing. Now we add epidemic one-upmanship. It is only a matter of time before someone suggests the virus was spread by a Frenchman waving a white flag, but that would be in exceptionally poor taste. I am not above it, but I shall refrain.
The real concern, of course, is not the virus itself but the response. Governments, like nervous teenagers, have a tendency to overreact. I predict within a week we will see mandatory temperature checks at Eurostar terminals, advice to avoid soft cheeses, and a public information campaign featuring a stern-looking Boris Johnson telling us to "wash our hands and keep calm." Because nothing says calm like a man with hair like a startled badger.
Meanwhile, the NHS, already staggering under the weight of winter flu and budgetary constraints, will be asked to prepare for the unthinkable. I imagine the briefing: "We have the budget for two hazmat suits and a box of latex gloves. Don't make any sudden movements."
But let us not panic. Ebola is not as easily transmitted as a cold. It requires direct contact with bodily fluids. So unless you plan to French kiss an infected Parisian, the odds are low. However, if you have a lingering desire to do so, I would advise against it. There is always next year.
The British response, in true British style, will be measured, pragmatic, and slightly passive-aggressive. We will send a team of experts to France to "assist." This is diplomatic code for "we don't trust your hygiene standards." France, being France, will accept with Gallic shrug and then ignore all advice.
In the end, the greatest threat is not the virus but our own fevered imaginations. Ebola has become a synonym for existential dread, the ghost at the banquet of modern life. It forces us to confront our mortality, which is inconvenient when we have scheduled brunch.
So I propose a course of action. Keep calm. Wash your hands. Drink gin. And remember: a single case in France does not an apocalypse make. But if it does, I called dibs on the last Tupperware of quinoa.
In the meantime, I shall be watching the news with morbid fascination, pen in one hand and glass in the other. The show must go on, preferably with a twist of lime.
