DAY 1 - BASTARD VIRUS !!!!!

As I sit here in the solitary confine of what was once my spare bedroom, hurriedly but tastefully transformed into a home office which has now involuntarily become my self-isolation unit;

I feel myself literally standing in the shoes of other prisoners from history; be it the flip-flops of Nelson Mandela, the polished brogues of Terry Waite, the ornate slippers of Mary Queen of Scots, or whatever it is that Oscar Pistorius wears.

For the next 10 days – this will be my sanctuary, the place where I will wrestle this interminable virus from my body, where I will release myself from the wretched corona-demon which has possessed my soul. I’m not anticipating it to be quite as dramatic as some of the scenes from the Exorcist, but on the basis that I think I’m in for a tough time I have dutifully prepared (by sending Julia to the Co-op with a list of ‘essentials’).

1. Face masks, sanitiser and an extra pack of test-strips which will help me to hold the beast in abeyance, and prevent me from infecting the weaker more vulnerable members of the house

2. Lucozade – while Whitty et al. contend there isn’t a cure, we all know that fizzy Lucozade has healing powers second only to the revitalising water that springs from the sanctuary of our Lady of Lourdes

3. Extra-strong mints – whilst I anticipate that in a matter of hours I shan’t be able to taste or smell anything; I want to continually stimulate my taste receptors as a means of reminding them what they’re there to do. When things get really bad, and I can no longer taste the mint, I shall summon for a packet of Salt and Vinegar Discos; which should have the same affect as a Ferrari jump starting a Reliant Robin.

4. Finally no period of self-isolation/viral infection is complete without a packet of milk chocolate hob-nobs. That will be my luxury item in my darkest hour, but given its only seven o’clock on day 1 of my incarceration and I have 3 left, I may need to be more frugal.

The next step is to effectively partition the house. Despite my initial enthusiasm to go the ‘whole hog’, and create an authentic cell-experience, the prospect of me slopping out my overnight bucket was too much for Julia to bear, plus we only have one bucket which we use to wash the cars. I have therefore established a bathroom protocol to ensure my passage through the house without shedding the virus. This requires me to open my cell door and hoot like an owl as a statement of my intention to move down the corridor. I stopped short of one hoot for a number one, two hoots for a number two. Once I have hooted and everyone has confirmed they are behind closed doors I am allowed to venture out.

In 4 or 5 days I feel like I will relish these short sojourns to the bathroom, my eyes will need to adjust to the light like a laboratory rabbit being released by a bearded member of the Animal Liberation Front. As I take in the expanse of the landing, my legs will feel trembly through lack of use, and like Bambi on the ice I will jerkily head down the landing. Unlike Martin Luther King’s Long Walk to Freedom, mine will be a short walk to the bathroom, but I imagine as I near the end of my incarceration it will feel as powerful and uplifting.

Having now converted my office sofa into a bed, I feel very connected with people who like to take Caravan holidays. By half past eight in the morning, I will have returned it to its original purpose. None but the most observant who may spot the duvet and discarded pyjama top will realise I am living in exile within my own home.

It would be remiss of me not to reference the support, compassion and kindness that Julia has shown. Despite me having to cancel my entire birthday weekend, and potentially miss Christmas, Julia’s primary concern was the fact that this means the builders won’t be able to do the plastering and the electrics in the kitchen; and as I face the prospect of Corona-hell, I couldn’t help but agree with her. And even when she left my micro-wave meatballs and spaghetti outside the door of my self-isolation unit proclaiming that her and Luke were off to the Kashmiri for the buffet, I couldn’t blame her - after all Winnie Mandela got up to all sorts whilst Nelson was inside.

So now I am set-up; how do I feel? If I hadn’t tested positive this morning, I would have said I had a bit of cold. I thankfully feel alright. I’m a bit chesty, blocked nose, torso is aching a bit, but beyond that all ok. Taste is ok, and I’m reaffirming that to be the case with a nice glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

I am predicting a fitful night’s sleep as my fevered-mind will no-doubt be gripped by the hallucinatory nightmares of the Virus. Tomorrow I’m hoping my PCR test arrives and I can then find out the true extent of my sentence.

….. and I’ve only got 2 hobnobs left. Its going to be a long night