The world seemed to shrink in lockdown. The same street, the same back garden, the same daily walk past the closed shops, the same loop of the same park, whether in pouring rain, snow, or blinding sunshine. When I finally came to leave the country again, almost two years after the first lockdown, I was blinking and confused in the airport, as if I’d never travelled before.
On the other hand, I got to know my own area of south-east London so much better, finding woods and walks and lakes I had never known about, within half an hour of my house. I’d seen the same grid of streets over and over, until I could appreciate and spot new details, a coat of paint on a shop, a patch of flowers, an interesting lawn ornament.
Another development was the rise of the online neighbourhood. Our street started its own WhatsApp group, an overwhelmingly positive experience. At the height of lockdown I left a cup of flour on my doorstep for a neighbour baking bread. Another loaned me his extending ladders to change the battery on my burglar alarm. I chatted to my next-door neighbours over the fence most days, and once we even organised for an ice-cream van to come to the street, families slipping out one by one with masks on, racing back home with cones and lollies. Like everyone, we did what we could to get through. Even now, this group is going strong, with offers to drop off food for anyone self-isolating, and even plans to organise against a proposed development on the high street. It’s community, distilled into its purest form.
During lockdown I also stumbled into the world of neighbourhood forums like Nextdoor or Freecycle. At first, these were being used to swap feverish information about which local shops might have eggs or toilet paper. During the petrol crisis, there was a feeling of a wartime operations room, with live updates on which nearby station might have fuel, which was shut, and which had just hosted a free-for-all punch-up over the last £10 of unleaded.
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Having a pandemic clear-out, I listed some old tiles and was pleased when they went the next day. I used it to find a new cleaner once that was allowed, and to get recommendations for handymen and gardeners. Clearly, local forums were very useful, fulfilling the same role a market or high street shops might have offered. In a time of great isolation and need, they also gave people a way to help each other, to keep each other company, and pass on advice. When we felt hopelessly in the dark, they provided knowledge.
Soon, lockdown was over, but I was still using the forums. I rarely posted but I found something about them deeply fascinating. All human life was there, from the hilarious to the harrowing. The open letter, which usually begins with something like: ‘TO THE PERSON WHO CUT ME UP AT THE JUNCTION EARLIER’. There’s no way the offender will ever see the post, but it must provide relief to vent to strangers.
Sometimes they are sad, such as the parents of children in wheelchairs begging people not to park on the pavement. Sometimes they are amusingly petty, with bitter disputes over hedges and bin collections. Some cheerful types just introduce themselves, as if on a dating site. Then there are the NIMBYs, who don’t want new businesses anywhere near them, or to be able to hear the music festivals that started up in the park, who complain about fireworks and noise from other houses (I could easily be one of these if I ever posted).
There are vast acres of text moaning about dog poo on the pavements. Many, many warnings about scams. Arguments over grammar, which can turn vitriolic. One thing is clear: people take these forums seriously. You can’t change your location without postal proof you have moved, and the random memes or jokes that fill up Facebook will be frowned upon or even reported.
One of the biggest concerns on online forums is crime: discussing it, worrying about it, sharing information about why the police might have been in the area that day. When two women went missing from the streets of London in 2021, Sarah Everard and Sabina Nessa, I realised there was a dark side to the forums too. Both cases received a lot of online attention - people were scared, and looking for insight, information, answers. I too googled and scrolled, desperate for some comfort.
Looking now, it’s easy to find appeals for missing persons, reports of vandalism and theft, distrust of the police, and despair at anti-social behaviour. You see a lot of screenshots of ‘suspicious types’ taken from doorbell cams – often revealed as someone’s husband just fixing the gutters, or a delivery person with a package. I wonder sometimes if this intense discussion of crime fosters a sense of fear and isolation, and if being on the forums instead of opening your front door and looking out at your actual street, makes the world seem more hostile than it is. If outside isn’t safe, it makes sense to interact with it via a safe computer screen.
Over time, my interest in neighbourhood forums grew into my new book, Are You Awake? It’s the story of two strangers living on the same street, who meet one sleepless night in the local park, convinced they’ve witnessed a violent act through the windows of a nearby house. Did they see the missing girl who’s been filling the news? Or have they fallen victim to paranoia, exhaustion, and delusion, fuelled by their consumption of online forums and true-crime groups? Discussion forums, nosy neighbours, doorcams, dashcams, and general snooping all play an important role in how the story unfolds.
Despite their dark side, I still think the forums are a wonderful thing, a way to document the mundanity of life, and chart the passage of the seasons and years – right now the posts are about slipping on leaves, stopping pets from being scared by fireworks, and how to navigate energy payments. I won’t stop reading it all any time soon - every post is a story in itself.
Are You Awake? by Claire McGowan is out now (Thomas & Mercer, £8.99)
