I’m isolating with Covid... and my social life has improved!
THERE’S one good thing about Covid. Women can no longer accuse us of having man-flu. After successfully dodging the virus for two years, I have succumbed. Through the throbbing headache a particularly depressing thought has surfaced: imposed isolation makes absolutely no difference to my life.
On Sunday, I stuck the swab down my throat and up my nose and waited.
“Yes, it’s definitely two bars,” shrieked my wife punching the air with her fist. “I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere for a week.”
I haven’t gone anywhere for months.
If anything, my social life has improved since omicron arrived at our door. More people have rung me, admittedly with the same questions. “How do you feel?” “Pretty rough.” “In what way?” “Headache, limbs hurt, no energy.”
“How do you think you got it?”
If the disease can be transmitted by looking at someone in a funny way, which, in my darkest moments, I believe it can, then my money’s on the chap over the road.
To get even, I may limp over there and hand back the shears he loaned me.
“How’s your taste?”
Pretty bad. Last night I watched an old Benny Hill show on YouTube. I laughed when he repeatedly slapped the little bald bloke on the head. We are a Covid household. With the nation gripped by this disease, it was only a matter of time before the virus invaded our home.
It is one of many flu-like illnesses currently sweeping through the nation. For the record, I don’t think I’ve developed the Australian flu strain. I still hate Fosters lager and find Home And Away cheesy.
Apparently, there’s also a bird and swine flu variant. Yeah – and pigs might fly!
My wife has also succumbed to Covid but is “soldiering on”.
I do have to grudgingly acknowledge her stoic refusal to buckle in the face of illness. The agonies of childbirth evidently prepared her for this moment.
She has informed me of this many, many times.
In 2015, she said: “My God, it’s a good job men don’t have to give birth.”
On that occasion, I had been bitten by a dog.
During the last two days, she has cooked tea, cleaned the bathroom and washed dirty laundry.
I informed family members – and strangers – I felt dreadful, retreated to our bed and stayed there.
I asked my wife to peel the lid off a yoghurt for me.
I’ve been toying with writing a will, but, apart from the collection of enamel football badges dating back to the 1970s, there’s little to bequeath to kith and kin. My wife said if I snuff it, the mortgage is written off: “A win-win scenario,” she puts it bluntly.
My wife is not tougher or hardier than I am. I believe the virus invaded her body, realised it had picked on the wrong person and retreated.
The dog that bit me did the same.
When my wife comes upstairs, I cough dramatically and, if that fails to get a response, issue low, feverish moans. Years ago, I used to bang on the bedroom floor to get attention. I stopped that when they paid someone from Rent-a-Kill to scour the loft for squirrels. “Are you alright?” my wife asked matter-of-factly during a foray into our bedroom.
“Do I look alright?” I snapped. “My temperature’s sky-high...”
“You’re lying next to the radiator with a duffel coat on,” she pointed out, unkindly.
“...I haven’t got the strength to do anything.”
“No change there, then,” she chided.
“Just leave me alone,” I wailed, pulling the covers over my head.
“Don’t be a wimp,” she laughed heartlessly, “Your symptoms are no worse than mild flu. You want to try being in labour for nine hours.”
Her comment made me alter the proposed words on my headstone. The epitaph will now simply ask: “Still calling it mild flu?”
If I could listen from the “otherlife” over my own casket I’d love to hear my wife whimper: “And to think I called him a wimp.”
Hearing her shriek “his arm just moved” would be even better, though.
My grandfather “just had a cold”, but died from complications. The complications being he didn’t look before crossing the road to buy a box of Lemsip and was struck by an articulated lorry.
I’m just worried that, while weighed-down by this disease, those closest will consider me miserable and intolerant.
“You’re miserable and intolerant, period,” pointed out my wife. “The only difference is you’re now miserable and intolerant with a temperature.”
It’s the burning sensation in my lower back that’s... hold on, I’m lying on the hot water bottle.
My friend Colin rang last night. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty rough.”
“In what way?” “Headache, limbs hurt, no energy.”
“How do you think you got it?” “Could be any number of ways.” “Not really, mate. You haven’t met anyone for six months.” “How’s your taste?”
“Tell you in a bit – Emmerdale’s on.”
Last night me and the wife began hitting each other while singing Eye of the Tiger. Our marriage is going through a Rocky period
To save money on funeral costs, my son’s bought me a pet vulture
What’s round and angry? A vicious circle