If I had to choose, I guess the hardest part of my boyfriend having (mild) Covid is the impact it has had on me. For a start, it’s hard to socially distance in a one-bed the size of a parking space. And seriously — you can just pop a paracetamol for a “headache that feels like a knife behind the eye”. But being a social pariah? There’s no Lemsip for that.
Hello from the other side! He’s gone down; I haven’t. (This time — I’ve had it twice, OK?) Anyway, according to the rules, there are no rules. But as cases surge, and people get edgy, I find myself shunned by colleagues; avoided by friends; hey, I bet you wouldn’t even say hi to me on the street (please, don’t say hi to me on the street).
I get it, of course. We are in a high viral load Wild West! And while no one wants restrictions, no one wants Covid either. What to do? Improvise, of course. Create a complicated system of well-meaning hypocrisy and illogical “red lines” for navigating this new era of Covid clusterf***ery, that (mostly) permit us to live the lives we so desperately missed. Call it a sort of ad-libbed Cov-etiquette guide. I don’t judge, I’m with you — although take note, there’ll be someone who does judge, loudly, on Instagram.
Anyway, a critic would point out that there are a few inconsistencies. For example, in this new world it is possible to have been exposed to the virus and go to the pub (“there’s no rule against it!”), but to simultaneously feel that — come Monday morning — it is immoral to expose any colleagues to the risk of the virus. This obviously has nothing to do with the fact that going to work also involves getting up an hour earlier and catching the Northern line during the rush hour crush.
It is also very possible to, for example, be the sort of person who insists on seeing a WhatsApped picture of a negative lateral flow before attending most social events, but also to be the sort of person who takes a “don’t ask, don’t test!” approach in the run-up to any event that they are especially looking forward to. Look, I don’t make the rules. We all do. What else? Well, bringing a plus one is a no — the host doesn’t know where they’ve been — unless said plus one is hot and single and the host was planning to set them up with another guest, in which case you might find they are suddenly quite chilled about the disease vector situation. Similarly, parents desperate for peace, quiet and childcare may discover their child’s cold is definitely not Covid — unless they want to get out of something, in which case it definitely is.
Lastly, you will find that no one wants to talk about Covid — but also everyone still kind of wants to talk about Covid. So although telling someone you saw yesterday you’ve tested positive is presumably as fun as sending a “soz, I’ve got chlamydia!” text, it is also a gift because then that person can spend the afternoon playing amateur epidemiologist and slagging you off on their group WhatsApps. We all do what we need to survive.
In other news...
Here’s a riddle. What connects a fancy bottle of olive oil, a $12,000 arm-sculpting procedure, free Botox and a small plot of land in Glencoe? Answer: they’re all in the $140,000 Oscars swag bag!
Hollywood is never relatable — the whole business is literally making shiny stories with people made partially of plastic — and to some extent, who cares? Frankly, no one wants to watch a film with a real person like me in it.
Still, $140,000 on some haute-tat (I’ve been to Glencoe, you’re better off in Hollywood) is an own goal. Not just because there’s a war in Ukraine — although there is, and the Academy rolled Mila Kunis out to pay lip service to it during the ceremony — but because it always is. People who earn millions don’t need goodie bags.
As for the Oscars red carpet celebs: another riddle. If you’re prepared to pose in couture with a ribbon for Ukraine, maybe you would consider giving the $140,000 goodie bags to charity?
