Covid Isolation Day 8: Very Almost Nearly

As the end of my self-isolation period approaches, with just one more full day to go, I start thinking about all the things I said I was going to do but haven’t yet found time for–my tax returns, sewing that button back on my chinos, dusting the skirting boards, buying and assembling a new garden shed. That last one is excusable, given how rotten I’ve felt for the first few days.

These reflections weren’t all glum, since they got me to sit down and type up a pile of manuscript for my very-almost-nearly finished novel that I thought at one point I’d get done by Christmas. Like Stephen King says somewhere in IT, when a man writes, he thinks harder. Most of my major blocks and hitches have been because I’m too busy of anxious to think through the kind of details of plot and character that could be solved with five minutes of concentrated reflection. And as I said last entry, it helps that the physical act of typing is so much more enjoyable on this new computer.

Squish and I spend a period working back to back, she at the table and me at the desk, which is a nice way to orient things. She’s dealing with a bit of a nightmare brief at the moment: a complicated product where the company is only willing to shell out for 30 seconds of explanation. It needs a lot of restructuring and fiddly cutting down–I help by eliminating the odd split infinitive.

Not one of nature’s home workers, she’s also a bit disappointed to be working from home until Wednesday, to give her non-vaccinated co-worker a bit of space. I’m also looking forward to going back into school. It’s odd how you start craving some of the stuff you’d never have thought you’d miss–reminds me of the month I spent backpacking around New Zealand in t-shirt and shorts, and how at the end of all that I had an odd craving to wear a shirt and tie!

We order sushi for dinner, which is very satisfying, because unlike the last time we did this I can actually taste what’s going on. Later, I type up my Day 5 journal for the blog, which turns out to be the 100th blog post I’ve written since 2012. Can’t believe how that number’s crept up. Occasionally I think maybe I should try moving to somewhere more trendy like Medium, but nothing here’s broken and a couple of past posts still get regular hits from interested Google browsers.


Covid Isolation Day 6: The Parental Pop-In

By the sixth day of self-isolation, most of my symptoms have cleared up. Occasional coughs and sneezes are the worst of it–and sometimes I can cough so hard it makes my head hurt. But I feel I’m pretty much back to full power, and some faint sense of tast may even be returning, to judge by the tingling on the right hand side of my tongue.

It’s rougher on Squish, who is still struggling with the gastric aspect of the Delta variant, something which has happily passed me by. She manages a staggered return to work today, taking a little break between projects. With my job there’s nothing I can do from home, so I lounge about playing a bit of Metroid in between frantic two-player bouts of Doctor Mario, reading Simon Armitage’s translation of Pearl to round off the month’s books, and watching the first episode of Doctor Who: The Moonbase, with Patrick Troughton. This is an animated version of a missing episode, as with The Power of the Daleks, but I really like this style: it’s claustrophobic, shadowy and captures Troughton’s incredible range of facial expression well. It’s enough to make one regret that episodes 2 and 4 survive as live action.

There’s someone at the door while Squish is in the middle of a meeting–it turns out to be her mum, Lara, popping down after a visit to Squish’s grandparents to drop off another set of hardbacks, the silliest and most enticing of which is Her Majesty the Queen Investigates: The Windsor Knot. It’ll have to do pretty well to better Alan Bennett’s hilarious novella, The Uncommon Reader, but I’ll admit to a soft spot for royal family fan fiction.

It’s a flying visit from Lara–she asks if there’s anything she can get us, but I’ve already asked a friend if he can bring us a loaf, so we’re pretty good on that front. Nontheless, she turns up half an hour later with fancy choux buns, piled high with cream and fruit–and I can almost taste mine…

Covid Isolation Day 4: Rice Krispie Cravings

I wake up with an intense craving for rice krispies, which I think comes down to a yearning for foods with very identifiable textures now that my sense of taste has gone to the dogs. I also feel really odd for the first few hours, in a woozy, out-of-my-skull sense. I wonder if this is simply a side effect of being able to breathe properly for the first time in days. Both my nostrils are in reasonable working order, and while I’m still coughing a bit and my energy levels are prone to crash unexpectedly, I would probably have gone into work if I wasn’t still infectious.

I do a few chores and finish watching The Power of the Daleks, remembering how, as a kid, I could devote myself to a solid Saturday morning of watching one Doctor Who episode after another. Now it seems I can barely do ten minutes without checking my phone or seeing what’s happening on another tab.

While Squish is still feeling terrible, I think I’m getting to the stage where I realise my days will need a bit more purpose if they’re not going to turn into lockdown number four, without even the option of a wander in the park.

In the evening we order out for sushi, which has an enjoyable texture, but the fact I can’t taste the salmon continues to depress me. Also, in the most depressingly obvious metaphor imaginable, my watch stops. It will be another six days before normal time resumes.

COVID Isolation Day 2: The Care Package

I wake before 5am for the second morning in a row, thanks partly to our cat, Dizzy, who is a great one for jumping onto your tummy, mewing, and thrusting her nose in your face until you either feed her or throw her out. Sleep is impossible thereafter, so I lie in bed and listen to my iPod until dawn breaks.

My iPod’s been indispensable to getting as much done as I have so far. Listening to energetic music takes me out of myself enough for me to commit to the necessary chores, like doing the washing up or hanging out clothes to dry. I have a theory that sooner or later, everyone encounters their happy medium of tech upgrade, after which everything else is in someway a step backwards, and the 7th generation iPod Nano is mine. It’s smaller than my smartphone, has awesome battery life and as I refuse to access music on a subscription model, the lack of wifi bothers me not at all. It does one thing and does it superlatively well.

Most importantly, it has a headphone jack that’s eminently compatible with the t-loop hooks I like to use in place of headphones. As a wearer of hearing aids, the near industry-wide decision to abolish the headphone jack is probably the most ableist thing ever to affect me personally.

After the sun rises, I shower and write up my diary while Squish dozes on. I tiptoe out to phone my Mum shortly after 7, and a DFL courier rings an hour later, waking Squish up. Masking up, I shuffle to the front door in my slippers, where I discover I get a certain kick out of yelling “I’m COVID positive, mate, I can’t sign anything!” through the glass. I think about adding “Flee for your life!” next time.

I lug the hefty parcel through to the bedroom, where we discover that Squish’s mum, Lara, has sent us a care package from Selfridges crammed full of chocolate, cupcakes, face masks and other goodies. This perks Squish up no end, and she gets up and makes us hot toddies — a scandalous thing to be drinking at 8 in the morning, but this is also the point where I realise that the anosmia has kicked in and I can’t taste or smell anything. Which is a disappointment — I was enjoying having a sense of taste for the first few days, and I’d really hoped I’d skipped that symptom. We watch a few episodes of Love, Death and Robots, by way of Saturday Morning Cartoons. It’s the animated equivalent of Black Mirror, but with greater variation in both themes and quality.

Feeling well taken care of

An Amazon guy comes along a few hours later with even more goodies — a stack of hardback thrillers and a bottle of Bollinger we decide to keep until the last night of isolation. Unfortunately he wants to see ID for the alcohol, so I have to shuffle out in slippers, clutching my passport, and I probably expose myself to the whole street whilst trying to work the front door latch hygenically with the corner of my dressing gown. In any case, bless Lara for the gifts — they cheer us both up and make it easier to be missing the big family reunion today. We have a well-lubricated video call later, when the O’Connors are in the midst of a long alfresco lunch.

I spend most of the morning lying in bed and grousing about how dreadful I feel, but after I get up and set about the washing up I start feeling perkier. It helps to discover that my particular friend Irene, who I had round the day before I went into isolation, has tested negative. She’s due to fly home to Malta on the Monday, and I was really worried I’d end up wrecking her plans. She later goes out to get us a few odds and ends from the shop, and adds in flowers, crisps and strawberries of her own accord, making our third care package of the day.

Squish seriously sets about reading all four thrillers in a day — about 1500 pages in total — and succeeds. Her reading speed approaches that of light. She proclaims Hostage, by Claire Mackintosh, to be the best of the set. By contrast, I manage a chapter of my book on Warrior Queens and then fall asleep for two hours. It’s a truly wonderful nap.

In the late afternoon, I subscribe to BritBox for something to while away the lockdown, and spend the evening watching the first episode of Thunderbirds. It looks terrific — pin sharp and full of colour — but I know I’m not the first to point out that a nuclear-powered passenger plane that will scatter radioactive debris over a wide area if it crashes and irradiate its passengers if it stays up too long should never have made it off the drawing board.

COVID Isolation Day 1: It’s the End of the World as we know it and I have a New Continuous Cough

Waking up at a quarter to five, I roll over to check my phone and there it was on the NHS Track and Trace app: “Continue to self-isolate for nine more days. Your Coronavirus Test is positive.” I swear and wake Squish, my partner, who discovers she’s positive as well. And we get no more sleep that night.

In many ways, the hardest part is waiting until the time is right to phone work and family and let them know the news. It’s particularly tough on Squish, who works for Jammy Custard, a small animation company in Cardiff Bay. I’m at a school that has clear procedures to follow and where the decisions about who else, if anyone, needs to self-isolate happens out of my sight and hearing. Squish has to message her bosses directly, who read the guidelines, decide whether or not to shutter the office, and announce the decision on the company groupchat. It’s tough for her, but happily the people she’s most stressed that she might have passed it on to turn out to be double-jabbed.

We’ve also planned on visiting Squish’s parents over the next two weekends, the first of which we’ve already had to cancel since we were close contacts. So our relief is palpable when business hours arrive and everyone proves sympathetic.

We were lucky enough to self-isolate early, and that’s principally down to the Track and Trace app. It alerted us that we’d been in close contact with a confirmed case and would need to self-isolate; I used it to book a PCR test within the hour, on realising that my cough was a) new and b) continuous; and it was the first thing to tell me I was COVID positive. Without it, I might have gone blithely into work on Thursday morning.

It got an avalanche of bad press on its launch and doesn’t seem to be much trusted among my neighbours and friends, which I think largely unjustified. A lot of pieces of software get bad press for being ramshackle at launch but improve massively after a few updates and patches, and that seems to be the case here: one peer-reviewed paper says it may have prevented hundreds of thousands of cases, and thousands of deaths.

Tea, chores and Tesco home deliveries dominate the morning. Track and trace call in the afternoon and spend a long time checking my symptoms and going through my movements all the way back to June 9th. The woman concerned either has a slow laptop or is a bad typist, and data entry takes ages. It’s further complicated by the fact that my phone connection is dodgy at first. I’m grateful for my emergency landline as well as for my working knowledge of the NATO Phonetic Alphabet, which I’ve never used so extensively.

Shattered after all that, Squish and I round off the day with two movies. First up was The Lovebirds, a rom-com about a likeable hipster couple thrust into a crime plot, where they subvert the genre, bicker humorously, solve the mystery and save their relationship. Just the pick-me-up we needed.

We follow up with Anna and the Apocalypse, a low-budget zombie musical which borrows extensively from Shaun of the Dead but manages to get a lot of heart and heft into its utterly daft premise. Cleverly, it takes itself seriously as both a zombie film and a musical, rather than letting the two forms sabotage each other for cheap laughs, and some of the songs are absolute bangers.

I have a headache, runny nose and cough all day, while Squish is only starting to show symptoms, but in any case, we get to bed early.

The Borders of Cardiff: Where can we go in a local lockdown?

Where does Cardiff end? Where does it begin?

Until yesterday, only the geographers cared. Now that the Senedd is putting us into local lockdown, however, the county boundary line has suddenly become of vital importance. For three hundred thousand people, it marks the outer limit, the pale beyond which we are trespassing into the equally COVID-stricken counties of Caerphilly, Newport and Rhondda Cynon Taf, as well as our healthier neighbours in the Vale of Glamorgan.

It’s roughly accurate to say that Cardiff is bounded on the south side by the Bristol channel, to the west by the river Ely and the A4232, and to the east by the edge of the suburb of St Mellons, just off junction 30 of the M4. To the north things are less defined, with the boundary generally running a kilometer or two north of the M4 corridor.

For walkers and Victorian-Gothic castle enthusiasts, this is good news: it means that both Garth Hill and Castle Coch are within the Cardiff county boundaries, as is the Museum of Welsh Life in St Fagans. The greatest losers are the residents of Taff’s Well, where one bank of the Taff is in Cardiff and the other is Rhondda Cynon Taf, meaning that like East and West Berlin, the town is now divided by a hard border.

Garth Hill is part of Cardiff, but Taff’s Well is divided into two by the county boundary, which runs along the river Ely.

Cardiff residents are also losing access to their favourite seaside retreats, Penarth and Barry Island. Here the border, running along the River Ely, cuts Cardiff off from the marina along the southern bank and runs directly through the locks of the Cardiff Bay Barrage, meaning that the popular running/walking/cycling loop of the bay is theoretically out of commission.

With the lockdown commencing at 6pm on Sunday, how porous these borders will prove to be remains open to question. Unlike the national lockdown in March, residents are allowed unlimited amounts of outdoor exercise, meaning that keen walkers or cyclists might like to revive the ancient custom of beating the bounds, or tracing out the county line on foot.