We’re over two weeks in isolation, and this one has been long, and hard. We’ve unravelled at a pretty steady pace.
There have been highlights. These have included our youngest’s fifth birthday (fish and chips, lovely messages, sugar, Lego, balloons), binge-watching Mallory Towers (necessary, but good), a sibling catch-up with wine over Zoom and an abundance of coconut-scented toilet roll.
There have also been lows. Cabin fever has arrived. We (and the house) look ragged. There have been tears. We ran out of bread. Any semblance of idyllic home learning has (temporarily, hopefully) been abandoned and I am on bed rest and antibiotics for the chest infection Covid-19 left behind.
Having been almost completely better, I quite quickly began to feel bad on Wednesday afternoon. After a two and a half hour wait on the NHS 111 number a very kind GP prescribed high dose antibiotics, to be started ASAP. As the only adult family member not still in isolation I had a surreal drive down the almost empty motorway to collect them (a convoluted process involving more tears). It was dark, misty and the orange electronic signs that usually say cheery things about taking a break, now starkly flash ‘Covid-19. Essential travel only’.
Apart from several hours on the sofa for Mallory Towers, I have been in bed since then, trying not to think about things too much, trying to get better and distracting myself by gearing up for a corona-special book launch at the end of next week.
I think the antibiotics are working. I don’t feel very much better; but I’m also not worse. Which for this week feels pretty good.
No more Roming 