Like death and taxes, it’s inevitable. The bogeyman Covid tracks you down and gets you in the end.
We’ve avoided the virus forever.
Like so many others, for us Covid was seriously scary. We were the 'never go out', order your shopping online, wash it down in the hallway brigade. Indeed, I’d reserve a special circle in hell for non-vaxxers and people who wear their masks over their mouth but not their nose.
But now, about six doses of vaccine later – hallelujah – we relaxed a little.
I still glimpsed the Covid shadow stalking me in crowded buses, in busy late night restaurants, when a stranger’s hands fumbles for coins in a till.
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And I have washed my hands religiously, worn the top recommended mask and, even now, wear it defiantly on buses, in crowded shops.
If anyone raises an eyebrow, I fix them with ma’s steely-eyed look – it’s my DIGAF look.
“Do I give a flying...” I’m whispering… or something like that.
But man makes plans and God laughs.
The camino in Spain somehow sealed my fate – perhaps the airport on the way home.
“It was a bloody pilgrimage,” I told God afterwards. “Couldn’t you give me a break?”
Heavy-duty mask, hand sanitiser and all, by Tuesday, I had a scratchy throat. The Covid test was negative, but I had a sense the bugger was hiding in the wardrobe waiting to jump out.
The men of the house looked sympathetic from far away. I took the stairs two at a time, closed the bedroom door, drew a cordon sanitaire and ordered them to wash themselves in a basin in the downstairs loo.
It’s the second week of solitary. Jeeves and son are very attentive in an Upstairs, Downstairs way. Tea, buns, sympathy, Donegal Catch, spag bol and chicken kiev… all delivered on a tray.
“Sounds great… Can I swap with you for a week?” texts my sister.
Jeeves offers tea and cookies; orange juice and pineappleade. There are entertaining tweets sent too.
Even my weight loss teacher checked in with me.
“It pains me to say that the only organ not affected by this dose is my stomach,” I text her.
When the dose hit, it was nasty. By Saturday, the test was indisputable – big double bar.
But now I’m on the up. Except that I’m suffering a classic side effect.
“Did you lose your sense of smell and taste with Covid,” I text my sister.
“No… you got the deluxe version,” she texts back.
It’s strange. The expensive Jo Malone grapefruit perfume smells zilch. Our boy’s wonderful steak is like chewing on sinew.
“Garlic butter?” I text Jeeves and son downstairs. “It’s slathered all over it,” they assure me via long distance text ... not a whiff do I get.
Food can now be classified as hot or cold. Porridge is mishy mushy and full fat yoghurt is so silky smooth.
“I can safely say that I could spoon up hot vomit from a sweaty armpit, standing up to my oxters in an open sewer, and I’d be none the wiser,” I text a friend who has also had the lurgy.
There’s a bit of it about these days.
She’s having trouble answering the doctor’s question about whether she’s breathless at the top of the stairs. She lives in a bungalow.
“It’s a time for reflection,” another friend suggests.
“Wasn’t that what I was meant to do on the camino,” I ask.
So here’s to double reflection time.
I remind my reflective friend of a retreat she once took in a Buddhist monastery. She was awoken at 3am and led to a large hall where a monk was banging a huge golden gong and shouting “Wake up! Wake up! Do not squander your life!”
She said she had forgotten that. It traumatised me and I wasn’t even there.
But now, the energy surges then cuts like we’re living in a lightning storm.
I make a fresh bed with crisp cotton sheets, then collapse onto it. If I reflect on anything, it is that I married a saint and gave birth to another.
“Look at it this way,” says my glass-half-full sister, “You’ll have great immunity for three months, you can go anywhere.”
There is a certain nephew who thinks I’m taking him to the Bee Gees tribute concert. The question is... how deep is my love?
