THE POX THAT KNOCKED ME

When the coronavirus first arrived, I was in Vancouver, Canada. The epidemic had broken out in China. Frankly, this was a matter of concern. Vancouver has a proper Chinatown, and half the population had just got back from visiting relatives for the Chinese New Year. I encountered a vast crowd of Chinese people coming down the street towards me, and I hesitated. I could cross the road and appear prejudiced, or I could walk through the middle of this crowd and potentially die. How flabbily liberal was I prepared to be? Bold enough to take on an infection? Not likely. Reader, I crossed the road.

Let’s face it, we British were once openly racist about our diseases. German measles. Spanish flu. The “French disease”. Then we rounded on animals. Swine fever. Bird flu. And chickenpox, of course. My three-yearold son got that. Poor little boy. This was some time ago, mind you.

When my son got the chicken pox, I rang my mum, worried. Had I had it? Yes, of course. OK.

I had a major appointment in my calendar. I was reading the words for “Paddington’s First Concert” in Manchester, with the Hallé orchestra. Quite an honour for the sort of person who likes the sound of his own voice — me.

I caught my train. But somewhere near Milton Keynes, I felt a sharp tweak on my arm and rolled up my sleeve. Fleas? It looked like a bite, but … I got a sudden ping on my neck. And then on my leg. Well it couldn’t be chickenpox, could it? My mother had said I was immune. I got to the hotel and charged into the bathroom. I had spots all over my face. Eh? I rang my mum again.

“Well, maybe you didn’t.”

“How can you be so insouciant about it?”

“It was 40 years ago.”

I rang the conductor. “Listen, mate, I think I may have chickenpox, but don’t worry. We can do the show.”

“Thanks Griff. You are a sport. I’ll pop straight up. We can go through the score.”

I waited for his knock. Half an hour passed. I rang him again. “Er, I can’t come up. You stay there. We just need some advice.” Another half-hour passed. There was a knock at the door.

“No, no. Don’t open the door. I am the orchestra administrator. You think you have chickenpox?”

“Well, I’m not a doctor, but, yes. It doesn’t matter. I can still go on …” “No. No. You can’t. We have women in our orchestra. Some of them may be pregnant.”

“I’m not responsible for that.”

“Nor am I. But you can’t mix with the orchestra.”

“OK.”

“And the theatre doesn’t want you on the stage either. You’ll infect the audience. It’s a public-health issue.”

“What do I do?”

“You will have to stay there. We’ll get someone else.”

I didn’t want to ask who. It might have been wounding.

I heard the administrator padding off down the corridor. I was Chickenpox Mary — a pariah. A threat to pregnant women. I wanted to go home on the train, but they wouldn’t let me. Apparently it was too dangerous, even in first class.

I would just have to stay in this rotten hotel room. For three weeks. Impossible. I rang my agent. That’s why I pay them 10%.

“What do you expect us to do about it?”

Can’t they find me a driver who has had the disease to get me home? “We could try, I suppose.”

They did. He was immune, but the driver still wanted an immense sum in recompense, as “danger money”. Perhaps he didn’t trust his mother either.

Now I really did feel ill.

Let’s just say that the cost of that sealed carriage from Manchester to London would have covered the entire UK Coronavirus Arts deficit.

Never take public health in vain, that’s my conclusion. And never take a taxi from Manchester to London. My personal finances never recovered from the sudden U-shaped economic downturn that trip engendered.

Do you have a funny story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photo of yourself.