In lockdown, green privilege is real

Long ago, a friend warned me I was living in a J.G. Ballard novel, but only in lockdown has the plot of High-Rise started to unfurl on the banks of the Thames. Developers are forced to build a certain number of homes for Londoners who could never otherwise afford anything, and height comes at a premium. So we’re stuck on the lower floors, in small, airless flats, overlooking land we’re not allowed to stray on to, as the rich exist in splendid corona-isolation above, peer down from their balconies and call security — to persecute us by making hints and suggestions.

Ten days ago, a letter was stuffed underneath my door. ‘Complaints have been received regarding the strong odour of cannabis smoke being emitted from your apartment which is causing distress and discomfort to other residents,’ the denunciation read. If this went ‘uncorrected’, I was informed, I might lose my home.