It was the mug of tea that started it. Five days into my second bout of Covid, I realised I no longer liked the hot beverage I had been drinking every day since I was 10 years old. It was the flavour: slightly acrid, with a mildewy aftertaste of distressed milk. Ugh. Then the same thing happened with its immediate replacement, organic lemon cordial. (Syrup of cleaning product. Revolting.) Then it was the back-to-basics option: tapwater. (Faint top notes of sock in school holidays’ swimming pool, with a delicate hint of chemical hormone. Undrinkable.) I sent out for natural mineral water. Anticipating it as if I had just ordered the most expensive wine on the menu, I realised it tasted… a bit strange and minerally.
Food was worse. I had no appetite but tried forcing myself to eat ready meals that were once my basic staples yet are now written off the menu. Farewell forever mac ’n’ cheese. Choccy biscuits, A-list for decades, faced a sudden drop in status – as in “I’m never eating one of those again”. Far too sweet. This really was an unexpected gift from the virus, which was still mounting a heavy armoured assault on my body.
