The 12 Days of Covid – A Diary by Jenna Wimshurst

Day 1

I awoke from my slumber with a bad cold this morning and, as I’m due to meet my friend for dinner, I thought I’d do a lateral flow test to make sure I wasn’t riddled with the rona.

I don’t know how reliable the lateral flow tests are, but all 500 of them have said that I am very definitely positive. Normally the only positive thing about me is my blood type.

I popped out to get a PCR test and will now await the results…

Tonight I went to bed feeling scared about dying, but also thankful that the eternal oblivion will mean I no longer have to worry about what to get family members for Christmas.

Day 2

Last night’s dinner featured garlic bread, onions and olives. Are these particularly smelly foods? I certainly hope not because I couldn’t smell a bloody thing.

Test results are in… I’m negative on the pregnancy one (yes, I’m a lesbian so the odds were low, but you never can be too careful) but I did test positive on the Covid one.

Not the best outcome, but not the worst either. Imagine if it had been the other way around? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I will now take myself to bed for the rest of the week and pray that I don’t get a) worse and b) dragged down a spiral of blackhead videos on TikTok.

Day 3

Have been wondering if I can sell my positive lateral flow tests online. Surely there’s someone who wants to get out of work/school/a family wedding?

Day 4

Another day in bed, another day not wearing a bra. At least my breasts are enjoying their freedom.

My guinea pigs have been zero help in the caregiving department. I certainly won’t be clapping for them on a Thursday night. Not that we do that anymore, but it was nice while we did – good to meet the neighbours and put a face to the groans.

Day 5

I’ve been ordering my meals and essentials (discounted Halloween tatt from Poundland) via Uber Eats, Deliveroo and Just Eat, and am now creating a scoring system for each to see at the end of the week who was the best.

I don’t hold much hope for Uber Eats.

Day 6

Who am I? What year is it? Does the sun still set in the west? I think I’m delirious from all the Lemsips, cough medicine and Maltesers. Will try to sleep it off or hope it goes away while I watch another episode of whatever crap it is that I’m watching.

Day 7

I still can’t smell anything, not the scent of my moist belly button, not the aroma from under my watch at the end of the day, nor the gas that just escaped my colon.

It’s the small pleasures that I miss most.

Day 8

I’ve had every meal delivered via a courier today. The Deliveroo guy was the best looking. Not that I’m into men. Oh God, what if Covid turns me straight? I can’t find that side-effect anywhere on the WHO website, but it is a concern.

Day 9

Uber Eats delivered within 18 minutes of my order today – they’ve really upped their game.

Day 10

Last full day of isolation but I want to make sure that I can’t give this lurgy to anyone else, so I’m going to stay in bed for another day. I’m such a trooper.

Day 11

My boss called asking when I’m returning to work. I told him to advertise my position on a job site. Not because I’m going to die (I’m over the worst of it now), but because all this time in bed has helped me evaluate my priorities and working, as it turns out, is not one of them.

Day 12

Freedom at last! Uber Eats came from behind to win the delivery service and my breasts grew even saggier, but now I must pop the girls back into their bra and go outside.

30 minutes later:

Is it possible to catch Covid twice? Not that I want it again, I just miss my bed and not having to contribute to society in any meaningful way.

Jenna is a writer of sketches, essays and books, specialising in comedy, depression and lesbian culture. Originally from London she now lives near Brighton with her two furry little guinea pigs who eat their own poo. Twitter: @jenna_wims   Instagram: @jenna_wims