‘I perch at my ground floor window entertaining friends’
Confined to his home by his psoriatic arthritis, Julian Worricker is keeping a record of his experiences
Julian Worricker is a presenter on Radio 4, the World Service and the BBC’S News Channel. He suffers from psoriatic arthritis, putting him in the category of those most at risk whom the Government has advised to isolate for 12 weeks. Here is his first week’s diary.
Thursday
The text message arrives from the NHS. It doesn’t beat about the bush: “We believe you should follow shielding advice. Letter to follow. Please ring practice if worried.”
It crosses my mind that the vast majority of recipients of this particular message are probably worried, but I doubt the practice would appreciate a call from all of us.
It is sobering, though. When the promised letter arrives it will be still more sobering. It’s probably an age thing, but a text, however stark, has a throwaway quality to it that a letter doesn’t. Of course, I always knew it was coming. I have psoriatic arthritis, a condition that I’ve received treatment for more than 20 years. The condition has fluctuated for me, at its worst it meant constant pain in the hands, fingers and wrists, but now, thanks to the drugs I take, I’m officially “in remission”. There’s one downside – they are immunosuppressant.
In other words, if I get coronavirus, my body isn’t necessarily going to fight it as well as I’d like. And that’s despite my being a fit and healthy 57-year-old who eats most of the right things, exercises regularly and doesn’t have to lie too much when the GP asks how much I typically drink in a given week.
So I have some decisions to weigh up. Work, some at least, can continue; as long as I successfully sort out what I have to upload, download, plug in and turn into a WAV file (you’ll gather here just how technically adept I am). That’s just for radio, of course; TV will have to go on the back burner. I can eat thanks to many “shop and deliver” offers from a devoted partner, whom I don’t live with, so he and I are having to keep apart, and from generous friends. And I can call upon a resource that I’m very glad I possess – I’m pretty good in my own company. It’s an “only child” thing. But 12 weeks…
Friday
I venture out. Shielding means I am strongly advised to stay at home at all times, but here’s where I allow myself a tiny bit of wriggle room.
I am towards the bottom of a list – which includes people being treated for cancer, people who’ve had a solid organ transplant and people with severe respiratory conditions. In other words – and maybe I’m wrong – I feel less at risk than some. And the nurse, with whom I have regular contact over my arthritis treatment, tells me that I should be “particularly stringent in following social distancing advice”. So I go with that.
My other consideration is where I live. My quiet, leafy corner of Chiswick in west London has been described as many things over the years, but “bustling” isn’t one of them. My street is a dead end, there are green spaces a quarter of a mile away, and I would have to try pretty hard to get myself into any social distancing scrapes. So, alert to the risks, I head out for a walk.
It’s funny how the mind works. Suddenly I’m seeing problems where they didn’t previously exist. I watch a man in the distance walking towards me and wonder if he, unknowingly, has the virus… and if so, what I should do to make sure I don’t catch it.
I find myself crossing over to an empty stretch of pavement because, by doing so, I can see a clearer route ahead – a route devoid of other pedestrians. But while there is wariness, while there is mistrust, there is also kindness.
At a safe distance, obviously, I lose count of the number of people I exchange smiles with… people I don’t know, people I probably wouldn’t glance at in usual circumstances, but with whom there is a shared experience. The smile says: “Yes, this is grim isn’t it, but one day it will be better again.”
Saturday
Shopping arrives. A dear friend who lives nearby fulfils nearly all my requirements at the local supermarket (we joke about my urgent need for tonic water) and turns up with two bags. We are scrupulously careful about how they get from his car to my kitchen, and then – feeling that my heartfelt thanks aren’t sufficient – I offer tea.
I live in a ground-floor flat with sash windows at the front, which open out on to the street. One of those windows has become the place I now perch when entertaining friends and well-wishers. Social distance is easily maintained if I stay inside and the visitor props him or herself up against the front wall.
It’s hardly the warmest gesture of hospitality but it’s the best I can do.
Sunday
There are low moments, don’t get me wrong. I think I’m mentally pretty strong, but if I allow myself to look too far into the future or – ironically, given what I do for a living – to absorb too much news, I can begin to wobble.
It’s the lack of a definite end that I struggle with. What’s to say that, in 12 weeks’ time, it will be any safer for the likes of me to resume a nearnormal life than it is now? I’m not hearing an answer to that question; probably because there isn’t one.
Monday
There are nice moments, too. I’m in contact with friends I was in danger of losing touch with, I’m playing the piano more (even getting an on-air compliment from Radio 3’s Katie Derham for my efforts), I’m writing, I’m reading, I’m even trying to be slightly more inventive in the kitchen. And my partner and I – and how strong and supportive is he being through all this – find a fun way to watch TV together, even though we’re several miles apart.
We connect via Facetime, set our televisions to the same chosen programme, and count down to pressing “play”. If it’s Gogglebox – a particular weakness of ours – we can laugh along with each other as if we’re on the same sofa. Almost.
Tuesday
And there’s one more achievement. My mum – 90 going on 65 in so many ways, but who repeatedly says she can’t handle modern technology – calls me on Facetime. She’s only had the tablet for a fortnight, so in the next 12 weeks who knows what she’ll be able to do with it?
She makes me smile with the tale of a college friend of hers, also 90 – and my godmother – whom she called a few days ago. When asked how the lockdown is affecting her, she said: “Well, I’ve not really noticed it, to be honest. I never go out, and the neighbour does all my shopping, so it doesn’t really make any difference to me.”
I’m good in my own company. It’s an ‘only child’ thing