Infected

So here’s the thing.

I might have it.

You know. It.

I’ll explain.

Last week, I was out and about with work, visiting two schools in the borough on Tuesday and Wednesday, and then in Central London in Court on Thursday. Safe to say, I came into contact with quite a lot of people – the travel into Central London by public journey in particular. I was surprised at how few people were wearing those surgical nose-and-mouth masks I encountered, but then remembered I wasn’t wearing one either, so y’know…

Actually, I was kinda disappointed not to see someone coping with the pandemic like this:

On Tuesday, I worked from home, more to get used to what is an impending reality than anything else. At lunchtime, I popped to the nearest supermarket to pick up a few bits and bobs, or rather, as it turned out, to shake my head in bemusement at the empty shelves where pasta, rice, tomatoes, baked beans, bread and of course toilet roll used to be.

I returned home practically empty-handed and resumed work; that night I found I’d developed an irritating cough which kept me awake for most of the night. At the same time, my pillow became drenched in sweat, so whilst I have no thermometer, I figured I must have a temperature too.

So that’s two out of the three symptoms we’re told to look out for.

The other is a shortness of breath which, given my recent medical history (for those not in the know, in October 2018 I was admitted to hospital with a pulmonary embolism – a blood clot on my (left) lung – and pneumonia in the right lung) I figured it was probably only a matter of time. Besides, as long-term readers will recall, I don’t have a great track record in spotting symptoms; when I was in hospital with the aforementioned complaints I replied to a Comment on here enquiring about my well-being with the phrase “Am in hospital at the moment, nothing serious.”

But touch wood, just the two symptoms, still. I don’t feel any worse, but no better either. I’m hopeful it isn’t “it”, but we’ll see.

The problem is, at the moment there’s no real way to test yourself, not when you’re a normal pleb like me. My GP surgery sent me an email the other day to tell me not to attend the surgery, since all consultations would be over the phone, which seems to be of no use at all to me. Wonder why you hear of people like Tom Hanks and Idris Elba testing positive? It’s because they’re rich and can afford to go private.

I contacted my bosses this morning (yesterday, as you’re reading this) to let them know, and to suggest it was probably wise for me to take myself out of the loop for a while. I was told, emphatically – and correctly – that since I was displaying some of the symptoms, I should self-isolate for 14 days.

And so here I am. Twiddling my thumbs a bit. I’ve just watched five consecutive episodes of Four in A Bed and became so engaged I was pleased about who won (or rather, who didn’t win), so perhaps there is something wrong with me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll watch something more appropriate, like Contagion or 28 Days Later.

I write this, then, partly as an apology to my Mum who won’t be getting a Mothers’ Day card from me this year (Sorry Mum!), but mostly as an excuse to post this:

The The – Infected

Yes, I went for the slightly less onanistic cover.

More soon. Hopefully.