I’m on a walk with a friend and only half-listening to her when I’m jolted out of my sunshine-induced reverie. “Boris faked his illness.” Did she really believe that the British prime minister’s near-fatal encounter with covid-19 had been scripted in a Deep State writers’ room? She continues: “They already have a cure; they’re just pretending otherwise.” I hold my tongue. The weather is blissful and I just want to enjoy myself.
Debunking conspiracy theories can test even the best friendships. I should know, I’ve been doing it long enough. When the pandemic started, I tried to ignore the pseudoscience spouted by some of my friends, black and white. Living in Bristol, a city with a strong alternative streak, you develop a high tolerance for quackery.