If it’s true that the virus finds your weak spot, it has lodged itself like an evil monkey in my head. After departing from every other bit of my body, it was still in my brain. It told me I didn’t need friends any more. So, as I moped about the house ‘self-isolating’, I sent a series of very odd text messages, telling my friends what the monkey thought I thought of them.
The monkey also told me his theory that there is no such thing as long Covid. All Covid is long. I would never get over it: ‘Well, have the authorities bothered to conduct any research to find out if anyone who has survived this lurgy is feeling 100 per cent better after six months or a year?
‘Do you know anyone who says they are the same again?’ the monkey asked. Nearly a month down the line, I feel as if I have a slight head cold, though I don’t feel ill. I can’t smell or taste anything. I can’t hear properly. I take decongestant, but it doesn’t make any difference. I’m not ill, I’m just not the same as I was.
I try to sniff the milk cartons in the fridge, then realise I must trust the sell-by date. If the builder boyfriend has left a carton out too long, then put it back, I’m going to drink it, unless it’s so lumpy even I can tell it’s off.
I can’t cook. All the while I’m frying onions I’m calling to the BB: ‘What does this smell like?’ I now realise a dish can spoil long before you see the ingredients burning.
I’m cooking only for him.