Ayesha Hazarika
(Picture: Daniel Hambury)I wouldn’t say that my body was a temple — although my middle resembles the dome of a mosque, the closest I get to my religion these days — but I was quietly proud that I had managed to dodge the old Covid for two years. I told myself that despite my very unfashionable Glaswegian beige buffet food habits, deep inside, I was secretly incredibly healthy and had the constitution of an ox. I very much believed the Government when they declared Covid was officially over and threw myself back into life with gusto. Never has a woman been so happy to quaff warm, free wine at a parliamentary reception or to clamber back on the dinner speaking circuit.
Then, two weeks ago, almost two years since the start of the pandemic, it finally got me. I felt like one of the last characters who almost made it across the bridge of death in Squid Game. So close, then splat. Bugger. When it came for me, it came hard.
At first, I just had a terrible headache which I put down to a hangover from the aforementioned receptions and dinners. Then came a very sore throat. Then came two positive lateral flow tests. Apart from being crushed to learn I didn’t have a superhuman immune system, I was annoyed. I’d just been invited to the Baftas, was ready to get a new frock and was beyond excited. This was all going to be an inconvenience.
I didn’t for one second think I would actually get properly sick because I had been told by the powers that be that Covid is just like a mild cold these days. Cut to me being absolutely wiped out, the most ill I’ve been in years. I had a hacking cough, struggled to breathe and my lungs ached. I was drowning in bio-hazardous snot and felt like I had a sword lodged behind my eye. I could barely crawl out of bed. Thank God, I’m starting to feel better. But it took a good eight days to pass. It was like being possessed — which may explain why I looked and sounded like the older sister of the child from The Exorcist. At one point, I considered calling a priest. If I hadn’t been fully vaccinated, what would have happened?
I wasn’t alone in my misery. So many people I know seem to have this rather vicious strain of Covid. It’s ripping through London. Case numbers are rising again with the BA.2 sub-variant of Omicron causing most of the infections. No one — especially me — wants to go back to miserable restrictions, but it does seem punchy to declare that Covid has been beaten. We must use our own common sense but it seems absolutely absurd to be ending free testing at the end of the month which is the very tool by which we can practice responsibility and isolate if we need to.
With this punishing cost of living crisis, many in low paid and insecure work won’t be able to afford to test and, thanks to the lack of adequate sick pay, won’t dare lose wages by staying at home. You can’t sloganise your way out of a public health crisis by declaring that it’s done. As someone who’s just been floored by this virus, reports of its death are greatly exaggerated.
In other news...
Like many a forty- something girl about town, I lived for Sex and the City back in my twenties. After a couple of disastrous movies (one of which should be tried at The Hague) I was nervous about the latest reboot, And Just Like That (AJLT).
The reviews were pretty poor with good reason. The storylines were clunky. The desire to be right-on was pure cringe. And yet, my heart leapt when I heard the news that season two has just been confirmed. Maybe AJLT is a metaphor for us original, now menopausal, fangirls. A bit rough around the edges but we’re still giving it a damn good go. And no matter how bad the script is, we will never tire of Sarah Jessica Parker, left, looking fabulous in massive heels. My only AJLT request: less earnest social justice and more sex. And bring back Samantha Jones. That’s what women really want.
