I choose the drive-through option for my Covid-19 test, so I tell the black speakerbox in the hospital car park that I’ve arrived. A medic in a blue hazmat suit appears. They tap my window and I roll it down, ready to receive my throat swab. “This is surreal,” I think aloud. “You’re telling me,” the voice under the mask replies. Meanwhile the man in the luxury 4x4 behind honks, shouting, “Come on!” out his window. The medic rolls his eyes and we laugh. Even when the world seems unrecognisable, you can always rely on a man in a big car being a knob.
I drive home. I tell anyone who will listen about the experience. But talk to enough people about the virus and it’s not long before a conspiracy theory emerges: that it’s the by-product of 5G masts, or a biowarfare product grown by the Americans/Chinese/North Koreans/ other stereotypical movie villain nation. Then there’s the bad-advice WhatsApp messages, forwarded from an unknown source and, as usual in my family, placing too much faith in the healing power of onions. It won’t be the virus that gets us; it’ll be the fake news.
So I find myself taking on a new role. It’ll be a challenge to my constant need for external validation, but I am going to be a nag on the virtues of handwashing. Invitations to go to the park will be met with articles on social distancing. Instagram pictures of a toilet roll pile will warrant a lengthy comment on the wrongs of hoarding when vulnerable people need supplies.
“Forward me messages you get about the virus and I’ll reply for you,” I offer my Auntie B, coercively, although judging by the one message she’s sent, I suspect she’s not taking me seriously. “Did you hear the one about John Travolta getting coronavirus?” it read. “He had chills, they were multiplying.”
