COVID in the time of COVID

Well it had to get me, finally.  I'm the last skittle standing, the last couple in a dance marathon.  I'm Bruce Willis in Die Hard.  But, it got me.  I've probably had it for a day or two.  Thursday I definitely had that "I'm coming down with something" feeling, popped some Lem-sip capsules, and went to work.  In my defence, I had three recruitment campaigns all crowning in the space of two days.  What are you going to do?  Much as I hate recruitment, I had to do it, so I went in.

In my defence, most people I know have already had COVID.  In my defence, I thought that after two years maybe I wasn't going to get it.  In my defence, I've only got a sniffle.  But I took my last (free) lateral flow test and the positive result was unmistakable.  Blaring.  Visible from Portsmouth.

So that's me gone viral.  It's my own fault.  I've been carrying a mask in my bag and not wearing it.  It feels naughty but good, like eating two Grab Bags of Walker's Crisps.  But a mask in your bag will not do much for you. 

I've now ordered my first non-free box of LFTs, so that I can find out when I'm able to go back to work.  Of course, the nature of work these days means I can do most of it from home.  Technically I'm sick, but I've been bouncing up and down stairs this week shepherding candidates around.  Ironically today while doing that I was wearing my coronavirus leggings.  (My design, but not my legs).

Work in Progress

I realised today I hadn't showered for five days, which is quite disgusting.  It may be fairly obvious that my mental state is not all it could be, but I am intermittently fighting it.  The thing that helps (apart from actually having a shower so that I look normal) is watching Trinny Woodall videos, and reading Bored Panda threads.  Bear with me.

You may recall Trinny from the television, when she and her co-host Susannah used to grab people by the boobs and tell them what not to wear.  Trinny has come on a lot since then, and has made herself into a brand, literally.  When she's not flogging her makeup she makes videos showing how to wear clothes.  There is a slight problem in that I'm not 5ft 10 and built like a surfboard.  (Rather 5ft 4ish and built like a hovercraft.)  But it's her sheer enthusiasm and joy I love.  And now I put my next day's clothes out at night, looking forward to sallying forth in a harmony of colours and prints.  I'm not sure what sallying actually is, but it sounds like a good thing to do.

Bored Panda trawls platforms like Reddit to find people in such utterly dysfunctional relationships that it is a relief simply to be boring old me with my neuroses.  

Today I tried to go into work.  Yes, it's Easter Saturday.  There is something I need to do which, try as I might, I could not do at home.  And it needs to be done, ideally, before I go back after the Easter weekend.  Feeling utterly <MEH> I thought well maybe now is the time to try that shortcut that everyone mentions, the one I've always been too scared of because it looks like where you find dead bodies.  

Walking up the road to the dead body path was pleasant enough, and then it's about a quarter of a mile alongside woods and fields and no fucker can see you and I didn't even dare look behind me.  I know this is ridiculous but I'm a city girl.  The country is just full of nobody being able to see you die.  And then you're over a bridge on the A3 and into the school grounds.  It didn't occur to me until I got there that even with the code for the door, the school might be properly holiday-locked-up.  Which it fucking was, of course.  So I walked home the longer way, along the road.  I might, if I can get up early enough try walking in a couple of times a week - it's about half an hour.  Exercise is good for <meh> brains.  Apparently.  

Country Girl

I am, perhaps for the first time, at a loss for neat words to express myself at the moment.  When you move house, and move house, and move house, and still feel unhappy, then there is a common thread.  I know that the suburban gothic horror that goes on in my head is probably the source of my unhappiness.

Where I live is a really nice market town, surrounded by spectacularly beautiful rumpled countryside.  I work with lovely people.  On the minus side, my job sucks the most unpleasant arse.  And I'm about forty minutes' drive from writing groups and performance spaces and creative people.  But on balance life is stable and comfortable, if slightly parochial.

Nearly three years ago I returned to a country that is just a ghost of something.  It is run by soulless people with no sense of shame or honour.  People who will lie as easily as they draw breath.  I'm sure there is something of this in most countries but there is a horrible maliciousness in this current UK government.  It feels like they want to keep people on a low income down as far as possible.  And those of us on a middle income are not safe.  In France, fuel prices have risen by 4%.  In the UK by 54%.  People are having to choose between heat or food.  And the government doesn't give a shit.  As long as all their mates keep trousering profits, they'll tell us to put on another jumper and eat cheap pasta.

Sorry.  I wanted to write something entertaining.  All I can think about is the people I miss, and the things I miss.  I am still on a WhatsApp group from Brussels because I cannot find it in my heart to leave.  Was I stupid to move back to the UK?  It felt like a compelling need at the time.  But I miss Europe.  I am a European.