The Coronavirus Diaries

WEEK ONE

You know those questions about what you would take with you, or who you’d like to be with if you were to be marooned on a desert island? Lying in bed last night, trying to not let my brain whirlwind itself mental over this whole Coronavirus disaster, my neurones randomly landed on these questions. I’d never really thought about it before; not seriously, at least. I mean, sure, there was probably a pathetic moment years ago when I fantasied about getting stranded somewhere turquoise and white with my favourite popstar, armed with sparkling conversation, flickety hair, and a toilet bag overflowing with cosmetics. But now that Covid19 is squatting international airways, and that everyone on the planet seems to be marooned on their individual island, it appears that the one thing everyone wants to have with them is an endless supply of toilet paper. I’m also guessing (hoping?!) they want to be with their loved ones, and not a pretty stranger with a hot body.

My husband, my son and I have been in quarantine for four days now because of an innocent handshake exchanged close to two weeks ago between two people, one of whom is employed at my husband’s workplace, and the other a complete stranger to all of us. The stranger, it transpired last Sunday, had tested positive to Covid19, but my husband’s colleague only found out about this on Sunday. Despite two weeks having practically passed, and neither my husband’s colleague nor anyone else having displayed any symptoms,  my husband had to put his entire team in quarantine and have them work from home. As a direct repercussion, my son and I also had to be quarantined. It’s like that six degrees of Kevin Bacon game we used to mull over years ago, minus the fun factor. The three of us are marooned on our little property, a little dazed, and for my part, at times relatively anxious, the three of us coming to terms with how much our individual worlds changed in the space of a phone call. 

For years my life has revolved around horses. I’d be out most of the day, grooming my horse, riding, cleaning tack, drinking coffee with my friends in the cosy little kitchen at the stables, or on a bench in the sunshine weather permitting. My social life was at the stables. Horse people are a passionate, pretty unique, crazy bunch. We take care of our horses better than we take care of ourselves. We worry about a teeny little cut on a leg, shining our phone’s flashlight on it to get a better view, asking our horsey companions what product they think we should use to disinfect said scab from our overflowing stock of various disinfecting products. If the cut shows little sign of healing within three hours, we’re having palpitations and wondering whether we should call the vet. Ok, so I’m exaggerating, but only a tad.

And now, because of little Chinese bat who pooped on a ferret in a cage who ate the bat poop and died and disintegrated and was eaten by some other poor animal in the cage underneath him (or something like that, it seems), the whole world is fucked. Thousands have died. Thousands are sick. Millions are on lockdown. Millions more will be on lockdown any day now. To all those who aren’t taking precautions, who consider themselves untouchable and who continue to display selfish, irresponsible social behaviour, you’d better get a grip. This is not the time to picnic in the park taking selfies with your friends. I know you’re probably not really idiots, but you’re displaying idiotic behaviour. Is it peer pressure? Ostrich syndrome? I get it - well, I get it sort of at least - because two weeks ago I got talked into going on a trip involving horses that already felt wrong to me in the current environment, but the shit hadn’t quite slammed into the fan here in Switzerland yet and spattered us with the fear of the gods, and everyone around me was saying it would be fine, that I was worrying too much, and so I thought, what the heck, I’m such a wuss, they’re so right, and off I jetted with my friend, armed with hand sanitiser and crossed fingers. I had a great time, and I don’t really regret it, apart from still living with the niggly feeling that it wasn’t a very clever thing to do. Worse for me is that I repeated the same dumbass behaviour a week later, jetting off again with two great girlfriends for another horse related event. Again we had a fabulous time, meeting the God of Dressage himself, then driving around the British countryside, cut off from the constant bombardment of grim news on the killer virus. And when we landed back in Geneva last Wednesday, only 72 hours later, the atmosphere in the entire country had changed dramatically. Suddenly, Covid19 lurked everywhere, an invisible sniper ready to strike at the slightest error in social interaction or personal hygiene.

We washed our hands. And washed them again. And again. And again. We kept our distances. We tried to keep believing that by being disciplined like that would allow us to keep on keeping on with our horsey activities.

Within four days someone else’s handshake sent me home, and my horses are being taken care of by my wonderful friend who owns the stables where my two horses, Dominic and Diandra, live.

I thought I’d hate it. I was convinced it would drive me berserk to be stuck home, day after day, with my husband sitting at the dining room table with his computer and his array of phones and IPads, doing his best to save his little corner of the corporate world. There are conference calls, and individual calls, and he sounds so intelligent, and he is so intelligent, and, holy crap, would you believe I’m totally in awe?! And my son is amazing, never ceasing to impress me with his kindness and wisdom and creativity. I know for a fact that these are the people I want to be marooned with for now and for as long as it takes. 

But of course, I know we’re lucky. We’re so damn lucky to live in a lovely house with a gorgeous garden and a big pond full of goldfish. Most afternoons for the past few days, a couple of randy ducks dive-bomb into the pond and go at each other like porn stars (duck sex is so violent!), then float around for a couple of hours looking all dopey before flapping off into the sky to spend the night in some secret hideaway. It’s all so idyllic, but not in the way I used to perceive it. There’s a weird new urgency to soak up all this good fortune and beauty that I’ve tended to take for granted.

My parents are on lockdown too, and the horrible thing about that is I don’t know when I’ll be able to see them again. They live only 30 kilometres away, but across the border in France, and the border is now closed. I’m grateful that despite being in their eighties, they’re both relatively fit, and are able to keep themselves busy with their garden. We speak on the phone every day, often twice a day, and I’m trying not to worry about them too much. 

I also worry about my daughter, who lives in Cornwall in the UK, but I tell myself that Cornwall, with its vast open spaces and windswept coastal paths is a pretty good place for keeping social distances, and she’s always been on the opposite end of the party animal spectrum anyway. We speak on the phone, and we send each other silly little videos that others send us, and exchange giggly emoticons, and say I love you even more than we did before.

I’m also in touch with my younger siblings; my sister in Geneva is wrestling with computer programs that should allow her to continue teaching her class of very young school kids from home, my brother is doing another online degree, and my sister is on lockdown in her house in London with her four children, the schools there having thankfully, FINALLY, closed, for goodness sake! 

I’ve enjoyed online yoga classes (yoga with Adriene on YouTube is wonderful) for quite some time, but now, without being able to ride everyday, nor go anywhere, I’ve been searching for other online fitness classes, and remotely reconnected with a personal trainer I used to work with a few years ago. I immediately rediscovered muscles I’d forgotten all about, so much so that I’ve had to forego exercise for forty-eight hours. 

And then there’s housework! Yes, I’m a spoiled old brat, but I haven’t had to do much housework for years, and I certainly haven’t had to do any ironing. I’m going to embarrass myself in public now by admitting that yesterday afternoon I actually had to find the manual for the iron in order to turn it on. Yep. It’s shameful, but it’s kind of funny too, don’t you think? At least I’m owning up to it, which makes it kind of ok. And I ironed everything in the laundry basket. I’ve also cleaned the main bathroom from top to bottom, throwing out loads of old creams and makeup and random cosmetic-related rubbish. I’ve reorganised the medicine cabinet so that we can find things should we need them, and have done all the laundry. I’ve cleaned the washing machine’s filters, the dryer’s filters, washed floors, made banana bread, cleaned the oven and sewn buttons on sheets. I’ve even figured out how to turn on the water outside so I can water the plants, which wasn’t as straightforward as just turning a tap, I swear, and I’m still feeling slightly smug about it.

I’m not quite so smug about the maintenance of my physical appearance. But, seriously, who wants to do housework in anything other than track pants and baggy tee shirts? And why put makeup on when you’re not leaving the house? The thing only thing I’m a bit miffed about is not having been able to go to the hairdresser before being quarantined, especially since I haven’t been for close to five months, and for some reason (fear of Covid19?) I seem to be randomly going rather grey, especially on the right hand side of my face. I’m not too thrilled about my new greyness, but my husband says get a grip, that I’m 58 and it’s perfectly normal to be grey. It’s just that I’ve always been proud to be the older sister and have next to no grey hair at all. Also, my hair is probably going to be unlawfully long for a woman my age by the time I next see my hairdresser. Then again, who’s the authority on “mature” women’s hair length? I like my long hair! It’s practical and lives in a pony tail.

One thing I really hate is facial hair, and I’m definitely not slacking on that front. The tweezers and the magnifying mirror come out every morning, and stragglers among my eyebrows and the impertinent intruders on my chin are eradicated. I have, however, been holding off on the daily developing hairy leg and matching armpit disaster, but  - who’ve I been kidding? - the waxing fairy isn’t going to show up and sort me out, so it’s back to bloody shaving any minute now. Never mind. 

Night is falling so it’s time for me to make my way downstairs and put the dinner on. I made a beef stew last night so all I need to do is warm it up, which is nice since I’m a little tired and don’t feel like cooking anything from scratch and having to clear up a big mess.

After dinner entertainment will probably consist of flicking through Netflix to see if there’s anything we fancy, but lately  we haven’t come across anything that has grabbed our attention. We’re holding out for the new season of Ozark, and I’m hoping that one of the millions of channels I have available will show the new season of Outlander. Speaking of Outlander, I wouldn’t mind being marooned with Jamie Fraser… He’s fictional anyway, so surely I’m allowed, right? Then again, maybe not, because back in Jamie Fraser’s days, there was a heck of a lot more to worry about than just Covid19.