Well it had to happen I suppose. After 20 months of lockdowns, isolating, masking and hand washing I still succumbed to the dreaded covid lurgy. Over the last few weeks everyone in the family seems to have had a cold. They have all dutifully done their lateral flow tests, which have all come up negative, so when I started with the same cold I thought nothing of it. Well, it was only the usual runny nose, weepy eyes, occasional bout of sneezing and general aches and pains, relieved by regular paracetamol. It felt no different to all those head colds I used to work a 12 hour shift through. In fact I’ve worked through far worse! However, because Mother was coming to tea on the afternoon of my second day of symptoms I thought it best to do a lateral flow test.
After laying everything out, blowing my nose and washing my hands I took the little swabby stick from it’s pack, shoved it to the back of my mouth and tickled my tonsils for as long as I could stand it before shoving it as far up my nose as I could get it; a most effective decongestant! I carefully placed the end of the swabby stick into the pot of solution and twirled it round vigorously before popping the top on the pot and, following the test instructions, dropping the sample solution onto the test strip where, to my horror, both lines immediately turned pink. “Don’t worry” said Paul; who had already done his test; “it does that as it soaks up the sample, it’ll disappear in a few minutes”. But that second little line persisted. It looked like I’d got a positive result. His, the lucky sod, came up negative. I let Mother know the result and postponed our fish and chip tea.
Since Lils had been poorly the day before I immediately FaceTimed Netti so she could test her. Within the half hour she phoned back to say Lils was positive as well and that she, like Paul, had tested negative. So I logged onto the NHS website to book our PCR tests. What a palaver. The stuff they want to know before you get your booking.
Later that afternoon we presented ourselves at the drive in testing centre where two packs containing yet more swabby sticks was posted through an arrow slit of a gap in the rolled down window and we were asked to repeat the shove it down your throat and up you nose process. Once we had done that I had to flash the hazard warners so the attendant could come over, watch us put our swabs into their bottles, take photos of the bar code on the bottles and scanned our QR codes before we could seal the poly envelopes and post them back through the minuscule gap into a plastic box. We left with a stream of instructions of what to do next ringing in our ears.
The following morning my phone pinged; at stupid o’clock so I ignored it until I’d had my first cup of coffee; with a message to confirm what we already knew, I was toxic! I immediately FaceTimed Netti and let her know since this meant her kids had to isolate as well and she would have to take time off work. Within a couple of hours I had several messages urging me to fill in some online form. I eventually took a look and filled it in. The saddest thing about that form wasn’t the covid stuff but the realisation that I hadn’t been anywhere or seen many people through the course of the previous week and that that was my normal! On the flip side, I’m not really that bothered, but seeing it in black and white is a bit disconcerting. It’s the same with the isolation thing. I don’t go out much at all; heck! I don’t even get to go grocery shopping, Paul doesn’t let me; but suddenly, because I can’t, it feels like I’m in prison. And come freedom day I still won’t be going anywhere. It’s all a matter of perspective.
Within minutes of my completing the form Paul’s phone pinged to let him know someone in his household had tested positive and give him a list of dos and don’ts. As did Netti’s, about twenty times, since there were umpteen separate messages for each one of the kids and her. Then on subsequent days she had to answered multiple calls from them until she lost her rag and asked why couldn’t they cover the whole family with one call? I mean, what a waste of time and manpower.
Following the PCR test I received daily messages, all with the same instructions and information. As far as the Track and Trace Service is concerned I felt it to be just a tad intrusive. I got it, I got the bug! I was isolating and I wasn’t likely to try going anywhere since by the 4th day of symptoms; although really no worse than a bad bout of flu; I was afflicted with that can’t be arsed listlessness and my nose was oozing a continuous river of snot which required constant wiping with tissues made from sandpaper, making it redder than Rudolph’s! I spent the next three days either in bed or collapsed on the sofa watching s**t TV through my covid brain fog (Ad Astra being the worst of the lot). Which has suited Paul just fine. He’s even been sleeping on the sofa bed to avoid having to be near me. Mind you, he does that when he can’t sleep because of my snoring. So when I received yet another missive from the NHS, would I please fill in their little questionnaire about their Track and Trace Service I thought why not, let’s give it a go. Except it wasn’t just about what I thought about the service they provided. I gave up when the questions turned into something more akin A level virology; checking whether I’d read all the gumph in my messages I suppose.
Towards the evening of Day 6 I started to feel a little more human and ventured downstairs. I still had to maintain my distance but he didn’t say no to my mac and cheese when I took it out of the oven. I was exhausted after cooking and simply had to go and lie down and sink into a food coma after eating my tea. It was around this time that I finally realised my taste had been affected but it didn’t feel like I thought it would. Maybe now is the time to try Marmite! Or liquorice.
By day 7 I began to feel a bit more human but found myself only able to do things in short spurts before collapsing in a heap on the sofa for a rest like some modern day Mrs Bennett. The kids on the other hand were back to fighting fitness and getting bored.
Day 10 and we were all feeling much better and thankfully the bombardment of NHS missives had ceased. And my sense of taste had returned.
Day 11 was Freedom Day…..not that I went out anywhere though, just lay on my sofa watching more s**t TV.
On a more serious but ridiculous note:
Since she had been forced to take two weeks off work Netti decided to try for that £500 loss of earnings payment. What a kerfuffle! First we had to find Lil’s PCR test code; since I had booked her test I received the positive result email with the code attached. Rather stupidly I had deleted the message once I had forwarded it to Netti. So now we had to try and get the code which involved trying to speak to the NHS Track and Trace Service. Communications from this service is all over your messages and emails like a bloody rash; until you want to talk to them, then they are harder to find than rocking horse s**t! Several phone calls to them to find out she has to go through the local council since they were dealing with the payments. Now, our local council are as bent as a ten bob note and even when the code was finally located, the form filled in and sent off it was to no avail. Apparently she didn’t qualify because she hadn’t had a positive PCR and had only been in contact with someone with covid. Which meant, according to Doncaster Council, she didn’t need to take time off work. So, a single mother who works nights and has three kids under 14 with covid, so legally they cannot go into childcare, must leave them alone overnight whilst she goes out to work! Mind you, of all the folks I know who have applied for this payment not one of them has qualified. I wonder what new white elephant Doncaster Council needs the unclaimed cash for?