I have been stricken with COVID since Christmas Day; the virus an unintended festive present from my fragrant beau Sarah… Well, hopefully the pathogen wasn’t intentionally passed to me by the shapely West Yorkshire lass. Although with her mischievous sense of humour, I wouldn’t totally rule it out.
The Ossett lady was similarly afflicted last week as advent approached its denouement. Her illness finally leaving her body on Christmas Eve when no longer able to tolerate her all-cornflake diet and habitual cursing.
Laid here feeling lousy at 4am on New Years Eve morning, it’s hard not to think I’d rather she’d given me a Linx gift set. In this festive zeitgeist, the dreaded male grooming pressie replacing soap on a rope as the yuletide trinkets I’d least appreciate… Well, apart from COVID.
In my dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by laptop screen, clothes draped over a chair in the far corner form a silhouette not unlike singer Susan Boyle. As I don’t want my neighbours in the apartment block waking, hopefully this ethereal vision won’t be entering into a rousing rendition of ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ anytime soon.
Witnessing these discarded clothes draped across the seat raises several questions in my fatigued mind… The main one being, as I don’t keep one in the bedroom, where did the bloody chair come from?!
I cannot believe how drained this cursed pathogen has made me feel. Each keystroke taken jarring, every thought made straining my weary neurological wherewithal.
With laptop perched on my stomach, laying beneath a quilt which has become my second skin for most of the last 5-6 days, I ponder whether there is a god. And if so, would he make me a hot cup of tea and mind turning the heating on.
Having moved slightly in my bed to afford greater neck comfort, the discarded clothes now form a silhouette akin to rock legend Ozzy Osbourne playing tennis with a badger. God, the hallucinations borne from COVID fever become more bizarre by the minute.
It’s no good, I am going to have to go put the central heating on and make myself a cuppa. Bear with me a moment.
Back again…
Ordinarily, I have no qualms about living alone. A situation affording me the opportunity to do and watch what I want when apartment in situ. Meaning I am not subjected to watching shite reality TV; of which Sarah is an avid fan… Well, apart from the evenings she visits.
Her televisual amours, ‘Married at First Sight’, ‘Love Island’, ‘I’m A Celebrity’ and ‘Life On Spray Tan Island’, the very antithesis of what I find appealing in TV broadcasting… And yes, I know there is no such show as ‘Life On Spray Tan Island’; give it time though!
Residing in solitude, though, loses some of its appeal when you’re ailing. Particularly if the affliction requires lots of rest and recuperation, such as fighting COVID, as is the case for GJ Strachan.
As I have no one else to complete the tasks, despite feeling like cack, I have tried to keep on top of my washing, ironing and making meals. However, these minor chores triggered high levels of fatigue, necessitating a swift return to bed, and slumber. In hindsight, with a history of heart issues, it’s perhaps folly to try maintaining domestic normality.
Thankfully, I didn’t jeopardise my health further by stupidly attending work during this malaise.
As revealed a month or two back, I recently commenced a part-time work role; my new employment seeing GJ Strachan’s inaugural toe dip into the retail world. A sector which thus far has escaped the capricious work ethic I brought to various IT roles pre-retirement.
This employment seeing me walk around 15,000 steps per shift, lugging cages of various chilled items with which to replenish a large supermarket’s shelving. Certainly, the most physically exacting job this long-established ‘pen pusher’ has embarked upon. Making the very thought of attending site a big no-no when so fatigued… Not to mention I don’t wish to infect colleagues and customers alike.
My new role of replenishing chilled products teaching me many new skills. Augmenting my CV with new talents like juggling yogurt pots, ripping up cardboard boxes, along with unearthing a hitherto hidden diplomatic side.
The latter exhibited by my successful suppression of comments like “Can you get out of the f***ing way?!” to dawdling customers blocking my shop floor route.
I of course jest. I would never be rude to a customer. My years working in the bank sector ramming home the cliché ‘The customer is always right’… Although, I do include my own caveat of ‘They’re always right unless they start talking out of their ring piece!’
At this more contented middle-age juncture of my life, I let a customer’s rudeness, unreasonable expectations and misguided feelings of entitlement simply wash over me. Knowing I can leave the role at any time diminishing my angst levels.
Anyhow, as I am struggling to keep my eyes open at this juncture, it is time I brought this narrative to a conclusion and get some shut eye.
Happy New Year!!
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