Secret diary of the wealthy infected
When someone in the community tests positive for Covid-19, I immediately think: there but for the grace of God go I. Hundreds of years ago when we were living under lockdown, I stuck assiduously to my bubble, steered clear of rule-breaking interlopers and felt the joy of judgy self-righteousness.
The virus had spread to old folks’ homes, loved ones couldn’t visit people in care or hospitals, and funerals were bring-out-your-dead affairs. It was serious stuff, and not to comply with the rules was wickedly anti-social. The overwhelming majority realised the severity of the situation and kept themselves to themselves.
When we were allowed back out to play, the necessity of using contact tracing was drilled into us as we scanned the living daylights out of every QR code we came across. However, as time wore on, Citizen Spoilt Brat, drunk on our own freedoms, became slack and absent-minded about having to stop in our tracks to scan at every entrance.
When news hit of the community spread, the spreaders were quickly traced, usually because they’d done the decent thing and could supply their movements. For their trouble, the names of all the locations they had visited were published across multiple media outlets.
Listeners, viewers and readers absorbed the idiosyncratic comings and goings of the infected. There seemed to be commonalities and patterns to their movements. They went to gyms, supermarkets, vape shops and fast food outlets, sometimes going to the same fast food joint twice in one day. Tsk, tsk, we thought, estimating the disposable income spent on the seemingly endless consumption of toxic takeaway tucker. Then it dawned on us that any close scrutiny of our own movements might raise eyebrows too.
Wincing at the thought of my own boring routine being laid bare for all to see, I hope the next candidate to become Case O is filthy rich, and we can vicariously enjoy the lifestyles of how the other half lives in Paradise. The not-so-secret trace diary of the infected days of Case O might read as follows:
9-11am: Appointment with spiritual growth shaman while hubby does broga (yoga with male BF) and I attend introductory class of goat yoga (where goats mingle with class). 11-12am: Browsed expensive car dealership before ordering latest 718 Porsche Cayman. Noon-2pm: Appointment at skin specialist for top-up fillers. 2pm4pm: Shopped at designer shops, including High-End Hand Bag Emporium with beloved doggie handbag clutched under arm before dropping said pooch off for serious pampering at dog groomers. 4pm-5pm: Private consultation with share broker at Grassy Knoll cocktail bar. Instructed to buy more A2 milk shares to broaden portfolio. 5pm-6pm: Slipped into Afternoon Delight boutique hotel for lie-down with side piece (share broker). 6pm-8pm: Attended waterfront art gallery opening. Bought entire The Undescended Testicle series by local up-and-coming artist. 8pm: KFC stop before joining hubby at home for nourishing dish of plant-based diet variety.