Self-Isolation Diary: Day 1
Wake up. Feel strange. Not sure why.
Manage to sidestep the early morning estuary of badly-aimed piss my boys like to leave for me in the bathroom. (Like milk for Santa, but not as cute.)
Bend down to wipe it up, muttering under my breath. (Good old-fashioned parent muttering - loud enough for everyone to realise I was annoyed but quiet enough so no-one would know why. Because riddles are important.)
As I silently vow to stop morphing into my Dad, I realise I can’t smell anything.
I panic slightly and start sniffing anything and everything.
Toothpaste. Bleach. My own pits.
Practically stick my head down the u-bend trying to catch a whiff.
Bollocks. (And I mean that as an expletive - I didn’t test-sniff a set of love spuds.)
Take a lateral flow test. Stand over it like an exam invigilator.
Try to achieve a negative result via Jedi mind trick.
Also turns out I’m not a Jedi.
Book a PCR test just to make sure and head off in the car.
Spend the rest of the day cocooned in my room eating biscuits and watching Netflix. Wife brings me dinner. Kids stay away.
Cracking few hours, if truth be told.
Now awaiting the results of this PCR test. Although at this stage, a negative result would be the biggest shock since Grimbsy Town beat Real Madrid 9-0 in the 1994 European Cup Final. (And yes, that was on Sensible Soccer on my Amiga 500 so didn’t *technically* happen, but you get my drift.)
I feel fine, just can’t smell anything.
But a positive result means 10 days of isolation.
Stay with me, dear reader.
As I document my descent into madness.