By the third day in self-isolation, two things visit you on a regular basis. Boredom and paranoia.
And this is no ordinary boredom. You can usually shake yourself out of regular, everyday boredom by, you know, finding something to do.
No, this is that special kind of boredom where you reckon you feel up to cooking a meal, or playing a game or walking up the stairs.
But by the time you get there you realise all you’re really good for is sitting on a sofa, watching cooking videos on YouTube.
The paranoia is worse.
What if my editor thinks I’m putting it on to get a week or two off to play the new Animal Crossing game on the Nintendo Switch?
What if the food delivery I put in a week ago doesn’t show up today? Will I have to live on rationed-out bags of Hula Hoops for the next week?
But by far the most frequent visitor to my loose-end psyche is this: What if I’ve really just got the flu and I’m being a massive wuss?
I mean, not that it hugely matters. I’d still be in no position to work with this kind of flu. But I doubt I’d be given a daily diary in a national newspaper to moan about it.
But then I try and climb the stairs again, my chest starts thumping and that rasping, dry cough returns.
I know there are many people out there suffering much worse bouts of Covid-19 than I am - I spent most of yesterday out of bed and wearing clothes, which is an improvement.
But I’m pretty sure this isn’t the flu.
Now if someone could just tell my brain that, I’d really appreciate it.
