Filling the day

We have been in self-isolation for only five days. It has passed quickly so far, though we haven't done much. Ann is young and healthy, and God willing will come through this well. Indeed, we do speculate that she may already have been exposed in January when we were in Singapore, and she had very severe flu-like symptoms with high temperature and dry cough. We were in a hotel, and she thought she was dying and couldn't move for three day. Of course, no one suspected CV-19, and the doctor she saw put it down to standard flu. But now, we wonder, could she have been an early victim?

Unfortunately, I am not young nor particularly healthy. We read stories of those with terminal respiratory failure feeling that their lungs are bursting, unable to breath, and it does take me back to my childhood days of asthma, when I used to gasp for breath during an attack. Inhalers were in their primitive infancy and my only treatment was a hand-held glass bulb nebuliser. This contained isoprenaline which gave some relief; only now, with my drug safety-hat on, do I read of the epidemic of deaths in asthmatics associated with this drug in the 1950's. Modern treatments, with bronchodilators and inhaled steroids, didn't come into use until the 1960's, by which time I had outgrown my childhood asthma. Now it has returned, probably secondary to other illness and medications. It would be ironic for me to die from CV-19, having survived everything else, so Ann is desperate to keep me from getting infected with it. No one is allowed to come into the house. I am not allowed contact with anyone. Even Ann has stopped going out, relying on what we have in the cupboard and what Mary-Anne can bring round and leave at the door.

Edwin wants to come round to collect his computer, to work from Andre's apartment in Cambridge. Ann told him we'll leave the computer in the saloon ready for him, but he won't be allowed in the house. He was a bit annoyed, but had to agree as the alternative was no computer. He won't be allowed to walk the dogs, or even see them: Ann says she will lock them upstairs to stop them barking their noisy greeting and jumping up him.

I still walk the dogs each day, combining my daily allowance of exercise with taking them out. It is a cold north wind today, so I only take them once round the playing fields opposite. The whole village is like a ghost town: I do not meet even another dog walker, and not a car moves along the road. The only sound is the cold wind in the trees; the only movement the rooks flapping hard above the trees to move slowly against it.  I have a slight cough, but it is not a dry cough so I must be OK, and welcome the phlegm as a sign of just an innocent cold. We measure our temperatures each day with the comment, "It's 36.6, we're still alive, so we should get through the day!" On Thursday, we stood at the door with countless others ready to applaud for the NHS. We felt self-conscious, and wondered if we should be the first or only ones in Hundon, but in the far distance, we gradually heard a ripple of applause in which we joined, then people started whooping and sounding horns and whistles. We are a tiny village, but clearly we stand apart united, determined to beat the bugger.

Ann is doing more housework than ever, cleaning cupboards and polishing till everything glows. I am not allowed to help with ironing, washing, even clearing the dishes away, as she says it gives her something to do. I think she should write: she always has such deep insights into situations and people and relationships. Everyone shares their worries or problems with her, and she always comes up with supportive advice backed by sound common sense. It is no wonder she is so good at Tarot reading. Her poetry is penetrating, arresting and deadly in its aim. If she ever does write a novel, I know it will be brilliant, and we would all queue to buy it, though hopefully I would get a signed complimentary copy! My only fear is, I know she would write about people she knows, and I suspect I would read myself into every bad character or deed, though I know she would deny it vehemently with the comment, "It's not all about you!" But it will be a book worth reading.