Nat Locke: walking the dog, starving to death, drool towels and other COVID conundrums from my isolation

I’ve never been what you might call an “early adopter.” You’ll never see me queuing at an Apple store because a new iPhone has been released, for example. Or standing in the rain to buy donuts from a newly opened donut store. This has the distinct advantage of not having to spend hours waiting and nobody ever accuses you of being cool.

So it comes as no surprise, that well after it was a novelty and most people I know had already been through it, I came down with COVID. Somewhat incredibly, I managed to swan around Italy for a couple of weeks without contracting it, but a few days sitting next to a former footballer and bam! Down she went.

Now, it has become abundantly clear that there is a very broad spectrum when it comes to the COVID experience. By now, we all know several people who have been afflicted, which means when you get that positive result, you wonder where you’re going to fall on that spectrum.

My early symptoms were so mild I figured I was just having a minor reaction to my flu shot. A tiny tickle in my throat and a hint of croakiness when I spoke. That was it. Was I tired? I don’t know — I get up at 4am, I’m always tired. I did a series of RATs to be on the safe side. I had five negative RATs in the space of 36 hours, including the one I did immediately after my PCR test. Talk about a false sense of security, because about eight hours later, my positive result arrived in a somewhat bland text message. I’m not sure what I was expecting — an emoji that explodes into fireworks, perhaps — but it was somewhat underwhelming to see the word “POSITIVE” quickly followed by the words “isolate for seven days.”

And it was at that moment that a small amount of panic welled up. Did I have enough food for seven days? Would I be in any condition to cook? Did I need chicken soup? Do I even like chicken soup? I had a lot of questions.

But the biggest concern was who was going to walk my dog. Sure, I might be about to starve to death, but the dog is used to three walks a day. How was I going to achieve that? You find out who your friends are when your dog needs walking in wet weather. One friend walked him in absolute belting rain. Another collected him daily so he could hang with his mates at the dog park in the evening. And the dog walker I had hired while I was on holidays somehow squeezed him in, even in the face of seven other clients who had simultaneously found themselves in the same situation. That dog has never been walked so much.

So, that left me. Poor little COVID-stricken, living alone me. Every night as I fell asleep, I wondered if I would wake up with horrendous symptoms. Would I be bedridden? Would my throat be so sore that I couldn’t swallow my own drool, thereby needing to sleep on top of a drool towel? (I know this sounds extreme but it actually happened to a coworker.) Would my sense of taste disappear for weeks and would that ruin my cheese eating escapades at book club? Could I evade the hunters on Hunted? I had a lot to think about and a lot of time for thinking.

And so the week passed, and as it turned out, none of my fears were realised. Friends dropped off food and coffee. I received my first ever supermarket delivery, which inexplicably contained three boxes of ice creams, which I definitely didn’t order, and they weren’t a substitute for anything. Let’s call them (and the fact that I could still taste them) a gift from the gods. My symptoms didn’t progress further than a croaky voice and some nasal congestion. This may be too much information but I only required one tissue throughout the whole exercise. How’s that for a humble brag?

Of course, my friend who was bedridden for several days was quietly outraged and resented me for only having a cold and being able to organise my pantry, which of course is not true. Even a whole week stuck at home with literally nothing to do wasn’t enough to make me clean my pantry. But I did watch a whole series of Get Organised with The Home Edit, in which a bunch of organising Americans make over other people’s pantries, so that’s basically the same thing, right?

I feel ridiculously lucky that I had a mild version. It’s like I won at the lottery of life. Would it be wrong to call it the snottery? (Yes. Yes it would!) There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to who suffers horribly and who swans through. My fittest friend was struck down for a couple of weeks. Young 20-somethings have wound up in hospital. And let’s not forget the drool towel.

So if you’re yet to be hit with it, I hope you get a mild version too. And remember this piece of wisdom: Don’t trust RATs.