Contagious Complacency
Apparently starting late 2019, news of the Coronavirus (SARs version 2) emerged in January 2020. The first recorded cases were linked to a fish market in Wuhan, China. DNA analysis showed that the virus was part bat and part pangolin and had jumped species again to humans. It thus appears that the virus hits mammals but not other types of animal such as reptiles and birds. Although the name ‘Covid’ could be confused with the crow family, it has nothing to do with them. In fact, they have been wheeling about in the fresh air with positive glee since this all flared up!
Typically, the Chinese authorities took drastic action to limit the spread. It transpired that my nephew was working at a school in Wuhan at the time and managed to get out a week before the lockdown. He now wants to go back there, considering it safer than the UK. Indeed, street parties were recently held in Wuhan in celebration of no new cases being recorded.
The Trump and his lackeys might find hilarity in referring to the virus as ‘Kung Flu’ but they’ll be laughing on the other sides of their faces as the virus continues its relentless spread across Europe (now the epicentre of contagion) and America.
Throughout January and into February, we heard of people from countries outside China testing positive for coronavirus including several deaths. As these people were largely gammons on cruise ships, we remained complacent. While some clamoured for Brits stuck abroad to be repatriated, others pleaded: “leave them! We don’t want them!” The clamourers won. Strange isolation units sprung up in the North of England, even though the infected returnees landed in the South East. Well, you wouldn’t want them near that London would you?
But the crisis still seemed largely faraway and non-threatening.
Towards the end of the month, we had a day trip to York. Exactly a week later, the first cases of Coronavirus contracted within England were diagnosed in the city. The patients being a Chinese student staying in a hotel with his visiting mum, it was highly unlikely that among the few fellow sightseers we came across walking the walls, we would have come across them.
Nevertheless, I started to feel rather jittery about travelling the country. We were planning a weekend in Blackpool for Phil’s birthday at the start of March. I went ahead booking a hotel and theatre tickets, but held off on the advance train tickets. Not only was the virus spreading, but the rail franchise was transferring to public ownership. A welcome move, but official communiques contained conflicting information about whether this would mean changes to services.
Concerns about the plague took a backseat during February, with atrocious weather coming to the fore. Storms Ciara and Desmond battered the country. The Calder Valley suffered flooding for the third time in eight years during the first storm. I couldn’t bear to see the yet-again submerged town centre. In contrast to previous devastation, the majority of businesses recovered within days. I felt sorry for residents who were badly affected, especially as many had little control over taking measures to guard against the inevitable. I had less sympathy for business-owners who had apparently done nothing to make them more resilient following the Boxing Day flood of 2015.
I checked social media to ensure friends were okay. Relieved to see that by and large they were, I came across several posts by proprietors asking for volunteers to put sandbags in front of their premises. With ample warning of the storm, what excuse did they have for not taking responsibility for their own businesses? Furthermore, some idiotically included staff’s personal numbers.
The River Calder didn’t officially reach the same levels as 2015, but was high enough for discomfort. As the flash flood of 2012 had coincided with the start of my current issues, it was no surprise the situation significantly affected my mental health. I experienced a deepening of my depression and a sense of hopelessness.
When the second storm threatened, the army arrived on Saturday to help with sand-bagging. Tempted to go and watch them, it felt like voyeurism. As I was unable to contribute to the volunteer efforts, mentally or physically, I stayed in to bake as a distraction from mounting stress and anxiety levels.
As it turned out, the valley escaped the ravages of Storm Dennis, while other areas of the UK were badly hit including Wales.
On Sunday, I ventured out to find lots of businesses shut, including some not hit during Storm Ciara. I saw a friend who lives at ‘ground zero’. He was on a futile mission to check water levels upstream. We discussed the ineffectualness of flood measures downstream. I pointed out that they were not yet finished and the residents of that village did like to whinge. Apparently the excessive rain was all the fault of the Environment Agency. Do folks really think they actually control the climate?
He said the Chinese had volunteered to come and finish the defences. “If they can build a hospital in a week, think how quickly a mere wall could be built!”
“Yes,” I replied, “it’s called Communism. I can really see the gammons going for that one!”
Another sennight of rain followed threatening flood for the third weekend in a row. As I set forth on errands, it looked like the river had overspilt during the overnight incessant rain, with surface water on the roads and blocked drains. Phil and I ventured on a short stroll up a nearby clough, to see the changes wrought by the relentless onslaught of water, on an the already waterlogged landscape. Returning home, we met a riverside friend. She had survived the wettest February ever unscathed, ensconced in an armchair with her laptop (“Thank god!”) on the uppermost storey. Her cellar is designed to flood but the door only just held back the deluge. It might be time for her to invest in proper floodgates.
Attention turned back to Covid-19 at the end of the month. Phil seemed to think it was all a big joke, making fun of the hand-washing advice. I said there was no harm in following good hygiene, which we should anyway. He has now come round somewhat albeit with complaints about his skin drying out. I reminded him that he has several of those metrosexual moisturising products nowadays (I should know. I bought most of them!)
Gimme Space!
During Phil’s birthday weekend at the start of March, we had a great but tiring time in Blackpool. On a trip to Cleveleys, we snapped up a pair of official Picasso plates for £2 each in one of the many charity shops. An evening at Blackpool Grand Theatre for the Count Arthur Strong – is there anybody out there? Show was very silly but hilarious, from the vicious attacks on Brian Cox to bizarre popstar impersonations.
I kept myself to myself on public transport, wary of contact with strangers. The train was packed both ways, putting paid to ‘social distancing’. On the outward journey, we sat opposite an elderly couple with a small dog. Undeterred by the cramped conditions, they proceeded to feed the mut treats and made themselves a brew. Fully commandeering the shared table, they poured hot water from a Thermos onto teabags in plastic cups. The man then proceeded to root around in one of several bags for milk. The woman got fed up waiting and drank hers black. Phil inevitably petted the dog and let it lick him to my great consternation. When we arrived in Blackpool, I insisted he apply hand gel forthwith. The journey back was, if anything, worse. A young man sat next to me, alarmingly coughing without covering his mouth.
Throughout the weekend, I stayed cautious, especially in enclosed public places. I suspected there were more cases in the North West than in our part of the world and I questioned the wisdom of travelling to the area rather than staying in the relative safety of our small town surrounded by hills. On the other hand, the Fylde Coast is blessed with wide-open spaces and as we are not fans of rowdy bars and pubs, the hostelries and restaurants we visited allowed us to minimise contact with others. Mind you, there were still a couple of scary moments when people coughed and spluttered too close for comfort.
I made use of hand-washing facilities at every opportunity. Some places had put up signs to remind patrons to wash their hands. Admirable, I hear you say. It would be if they supplied hot water to comply with the wise advice. Phil again accused me of being obsessive and again I repeated there was no harm in being careful.
There had been some reports of panic buying, unfathomably focused on bog roll and pasta. I saw the first instance of this in Blackpool. A queue formed outside B&M waiting for it to open at 11.00 a.m. on the Sunday.
Inevitably exhausted when we got home, I managed a normal Monday, attending my regular adult ballet class at the local gym in spite of yet more foul weather. Only three students turned up. Maybe the others were already in quarantine? The next morning I felt ill and was bedridden for four days. Phil also felt unwell. Not surprisingly, we wondered if we had contracted Covid-19, but with no sign of a dry cough or fever, were pretty sure we hadn’t. In my case at least, the symptoms indicated the usual sinusitis, probably triggered by the weekend away, lack of sleep and increased fatigue. Weirdly, a part of me wanted to catch the virus and get it over with. This plan would only work if it didn’t kill me and I developed immunity from further attacks. There was no guarantee so far against either of those eventualities.
It occurred to me that if our ailments dragged on or recurred, we would be ahead of the curve in self-isolating seeing as the WHO had now declared a global pandemic and the UK government were expected to tell everyone with a cold or similar illness go into quarantine within the next fortnight. Cue more panic-buying and loo roll shortages!
Spend, Spend, Spend
Being housebound, I had plenty of time to catch up on politics. Rishy Rich presented his budget on 11th March; hastily re-written in light of the coronavirus threat. Amongst a host of measures suggesting the Tories had now not only found a ‘magic money tree’, but a veritable forest, mind-boggling amounts of cash were thrown at public services, businesses, and infrastructure projects. On Covid-19, they announced that everyone in work who was forced to self-isolate would be able to claim Statutory Sick Pay (SSP) from day one. Straight away, this begged questions about those on zero hours contacts and working in the gig economy. As for the self-employed, he wittered on about Universal Credit (UC) making us wonder if had he got confused between SSP and UC. Apparently not.
Announcements towards the end of the week did nothing to clarify the issue. Bumbling Boris and the Medicine Chief announced the nation had reached the ’delay’ phase of trying to control the contagion. Not quite as predicted, the government asked people with a cough or fever to stay home for a week. They stopped short of banning public events and flying about which seemed grossly irresponsible. In their opinion, the spread of the virus in the UK was 4 weeks behind Italy when other experts reckoned it was more like 2 weeks. In light of the fact that Italy had gone into total lockdown, the mixed messages were worrying.
Their foolhardy plan consisted of keeping things going and planning for most of the population to get the virus thus promoting ‘herd immunity’. It was blatantly obvious the strategy was more about propping up capitalism than protecting people’s lives. It was later alleged that it was the brainchild of Dom Cumberbatch (of course, Number 10 denied this). Other fans of right-wing eugenics such as Katie Hopkins, also seemed to agree we should just let the old and vulnerable die.
Over the weekend, and without a clear steer from the authorities, football clubs and airlines took matters into their own hands with all matches and most flights cancelled.
Closer to home, the first case in our borough emerged. This caused further consternation. Due to a ridiculous lack of testing, we knew confirmed cases were a tiny portion of the actual numbers. How close was it really?
Chaos Reigns!
I had felt okay for a couple of days and made a cautious trip to town for essentials. It was extremely quiet in the main, although I had to detour round a large family group ambling at snail’s pace down the pedestrian street, to maintain the recommended safe space. A balloon confection had been abandoned outside the town hall, inspiring that week’s haiga: ‘Social Distancing’.i
Following a terrible night, severe fatigue recurred on Monday. I also developed a headache and became more debilitated as the day wore on. The customary siesta refreshed me not one jot. A series of annoyances ensued and I was on the verge of tears. I knew this was more due to the tiredness than the breaking of a pot. I hoped I would perk up enough with caffeine to go to ballet class. But in the midst of Bumbling Boris’ new daily ‘Plague Broadcast’, I became very sleepy and could hardly keep my eyes open up. Citizens were advised to avoid non-essential social contact and travel, and to work at home whenever possible.
Notably, they stopped short of forcing pubs to shut. Phil remarked that this was crap because they wouldn’t be able to claim on ‘loss of business’ insurance. As this was to come later, a cynic might say measures were being introduced bit by bit to get us all acclimatised for when emergency powers came in.
The missive had no influence on my decision to not attend ballet. In fact, it crossed my mind to go while I still could, before everything got banned. But I just couldn’t do it. Phil said he also felt very tired and again we wondered if we had a mild version of coronavirus – how would we know for certain?
The message from our glorious leader (sic) included a plea that if anyone showed symptoms the whole household self-isolate for 14 days. More confusing abounded. At first the isolation period was 14 days, then was 7 and now it was 14 again. More than ever, we concluded they were fumbling from one announcement to the next, with no long-term thinking, not even to the end of the week.
The next day, I felt much brighter after a better sleep. I tried to contact Mum. Despite her mobile being to hand, she rarely answers calls. After another failed attempt, I rang her care home. The carer I spoke to assured me Mum was fine and confirmed the home was closed to visitors due to the ‘corvus virus’ . Thank you Jenny for inspiring the title of this journal!
Reference:
i My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com
The Corvus Diaries 