Everyone has their own Covid-19 story, and here’s mine. I caught it in Marks & Spencer in late March last year, when 200 clearly deranged panic-buyers set about stripping the store of its every last ready meal. Web designers grasping the last known packet of Our Best Ever Prawn Cocktail, estate agents fighting over the gooseberry and elderflower yoghurts: it felt like the end of times, and was actually one of the scariest experiences I have ever had. My friend Russell got it at around the same point at his daughter’s PTA meeting. He spent five weeks in hospital. Another parent died.
There were four of us in this small flat. We knew if one of us got it, we all would. It was my daughter Martha, aged 20, who first started showing symptoms. Her Covid was both easily identifiable (dry cough, sore throat, fatigue, slight breathlessness) and, happily, very mild.
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