‘I can’t go through this again!’ I groaned, as I lay in bed encased in icepacks, one on my eyes and the other round the back of my neck. Covid – which seems to be alive and kicking this summer despite being pronounced over by the World Health Organisation – always strikes at my nervous system and sets off existing problems, including my fragile emotional stability.
The builder boyfriend brings me orange juice and breakfast on a tray, walks the dogs, feeds the horses, goes to work and comes back to find me huddled under the duvet, sobbing. He is weather-beaten from his day on a roof, and feeling rough himself. ‘It will pass,’ he says. I looked up the latest variant and it is called BA.2.86, which sounds like a flight to somewhere nice, like Lefkas or Majorca. In fact, it’s a trip to somewhere not nice at all.
This is my fourth rodeo that I know of.
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