Lockdown Fever

It's been a while hasn't it?  I had no real reason to stop sharing tall tales from The Nest except I'd run out of cheery struggles to write about, especially as I don't work in retail any more and for the past year I'd relaxed into a state of mental torpor about the work situation reasoning that 'it's not long until retirement.'  Except all those plans have been dumped in the face of a global pandemic and since March 2020 I've learned to love queuing for food just as they did in the old Soviet Union.  Yesterday, I queued for half an hour in the midday sun for a hot water bottle at everyone's favourite hardware store, Wilko.  Everything which was wonky in The Nest has been fixed or painted and I've bottomed my sock drawer.  It's official, I've got cabin fever.

Locked down at work and at home; personally I feel it takes real skill to get stuffed on both levels.  Deep inside though, the lid came off my creative writing reserves and I woke up with a start as if from a long sleep in a ditch.  Suddenly I wanted to be an author again, a 'proper writer' of dark dystopian science fiction.  Obviously I'd already started considering a future with no water, precious few resources and heroes battling to save the world from an evil villain.  Oops! If I'd consulted the family crystal ball - we do have a cheap one but it's not exactly reliable - then I might have foreseen the reality which was burgeoning in our direction.   Now we're right in it  ... temporarily, of course.  The perfect time to start writing again.

You won't have seen the first chapter of my novel which I posted over a year ago because I deleted it last week.  It only had two page views, both of which were mine.  It was sad because I'd thrashed out the original idea over a bucket of coffee in the patisserie opposite Victoria's Secrets in the Bull Ring.  At any time if overwhelmed by creativity I could nip over the way for a quick browse and a cunning purchase of scanties.  Soon after the initial thrill of starting to write the great tome, I made the writer's classic mistake of telling someone else the story.

We have two new staff in my wing of the hospital since the departure of the dreadful Valkyrie. Champion, who is a funny, very smart woman who needs help seeking a new partner, and Frosty who hails from Essex and who regularly calls a spade an 'effing shovel'.  I love them both.  Keen to show off over lunch of a light salad and chips in the staff restaurant, I gave Frosty a quick outline of the story.  She fixed me with a stare and pronounced with absolute certainty ...
"That's Kiss of the Spider Woman set in a dystopian future instead of Argentina with a manga comic twist!"  Everyone's a critic.
"Is it?"  I've never read the book but I'm sure the film hasn't been shown on the Horror channel recently.  But I didn't want to diss her obvious love of literature and asked if she was sure.
"Positive," she barked back "I only gave the book to charity last week."  Damn!  That'll teach me not to ask questions of an Essex girl.  In creative circles, talent can only take you so far but with a bucket of perseverance and connections, a writer can make progress so I ploughed on.  'There could still be a book in this' I reasoned but after a period of drifting and reworking, I decided to do the kind thing and abandon The Order of Sanctity  at the 35,000 word point.  You see, I was thrashing away at the keyboard when I had a gin and tonic moment.
"I have become a Typewriter Monkey!" I felt like shouting but it was 2.00 am.
This revelation finally plucked my flight feathers right back to the quick.  As in my work life I'd also become a typewriter monkey - day in, day out, typing clinics of 20-30 letters about patients afflicted with bad hips and/or knees was stifling the last few bubbles of originality.

Currently I am classed as a key worker and have a letter to gain entry to supermarkets in the early hours but I won't use it.  I'm far away from patient care despite having to wear a mask to visit the facilities.  One of our consultants is very lofty in the Infectious Diseases department and I've been working on his reports for a change.  I'm sure he dreads heading out in public as everywhere he goes, he is interrogated by the nearest hypochondriac.  Last week, I observed a strange encounter between him and one of my male co-workers, VJ, who was crabbing down the main corridor with his back to the wall.  He was doing a good job of social distancing except he'd tied his mask under his nose so he could breathe properly.  The two men faced each other at about five feet eleven inches apart.
"Prof ... I think I've had corona virus."  Bless him, the good professor's face suggested he is a grand master of bluffing at the poker table.
"Were you ill before or after Christmas 2019?"  VJ had to think about the answer without counting on his fingers.
"Before."
"Then you haven't had it.  You've had the ghastly seasonal virus we all got between November and New Year."
"But I lost my sense of smell and taste and everything."
"Really?  Everything you ate tasted like wallpaper did it?"  The light which illuminated VJ's face was stellar.  The professor was now backing away towards the door of his consulting room possibly to shed tears of frustration.
"Oh yeah ... how did you know?"
"Because it's a symptom of the common cold but also of corona in some cases."
VJ felt his wish for two weeks off sick was about to be granted.  "So I have had it then?" he asked.
"No.  What you've had is a stinking head cold."

So it's nearly June and Summer is bursting out in all directions but whilst many tears have been shed over the last few months, we still need answers:
Who got corona first?  Someone has to be 'Patient Zero' whether it originated from eating bat shit or the result of a ghastly experiment, pinpointing it will make us all feel better to wag the finger of fate in a specific direction.
What precautions, if any, did they take to avoid spreading it to their nearest and dearest?
When they realised this was a right cock-up and that it couldn't be contained, did they think to mention it to the authorities?
Where exactly was this cooked up?  Conspiracy theories abound and books will be written but I want the accurate location to avoid it at all costs possibly into the next reincarnation.
Why aren't the surviving perpetrators in stocks being pelted by chunks of banana loaf?
How do they think the world is coming back from this?  I think the deficit in the global economy should be on the shoulders of those responsible ... except we'll never know who they are, will we?

On the upside, the shops are preparing to open in two weeks' time and I'm taking time off to handcraft a jolly mask which will actually fit my beak, unlike the flimsy blue one I've been given.  I won't be visiting Zara or touching lovely fabrics in John Lewis either but will stay away from the crowds who will be barrelling into shopping centres attempting to gain a scant grip on a new reality.

Tip of the Beak:  I'm loving the whole new world of orderly shopping with a special mention to Sainsbury's on Melton Road.  The social distancing zone is very clearly outlined but if you need Argos then the queue  is massive. I'm heading there now to fill up and return to The Nest in blissful isolation.  Alphonse is here of course using regular hand sanitiser and sporting a wavy mullet but he's been in isolation since he retired, so no worries there.  Stay safe everyone.

Raven