Herewith a home journal, doubtless one of a myriad, penned by we 2020 Coronavirus shut-ins.
We each have a tale to tell of our smaller worlds, our fears and sorrows and pleasures.
This one is set in Adelaide, South Australia.
It's rough and unedited.
I'm a theatre critic now with no theatre to review. With my American-born scientist husband Bruce, I'm technically a retiree, in my 70s, and in the coronavirus "vulnerable" category. Here we are, self-isolated in our little granny house.
Wonderful thing that is the Adelaide Festival of Arts, it is pretty intensive when it comes to being packed cheek to jowl with your fellow humanity in theatres. I have been a germ phobe ever since I had to care for my vulnerable old mother many years ago. I am hostile towards anyone who attends theatre while clearly unwell or infectious. Their presence near me can skew my concentration and hence my enjoyment of a show, let alone ability to review it. So, I have been hyper-aware of infection risks since the word of coronavirus emerged.
Hence, I did not wait until the last show of the Festival to pull back. It feels stressful to do so because one can feel the disapproval of many people. My friend Peter, to whom I speak daily and at length about everything in our lives, is particularly snide constantly referring to me as a germ phobe and “paranoid”. He also blithely braggs that, unlike me, he is not reading the news on the coronavirus.
So...
The show is a little disappointing since there is an excess of shrill squealing and screaming which I find offensive and aurally uncomfortable.
I am very happy to get home to a G&T and the decision to pull up the drawbridge.
Day 1.
Monday, March 9, 2020
Tidying up and nesting for withdrawal. Planning things I can write and do in such a life hiatus.
First up, write and sent off Rumpus crit from the night before and then polish off a book review for The Advertiser. A wonderfully unusual book I am very pleased to review.
Try (again) to link my Woolies Rewards card to the Woolies online shopping site. Utter frustration with password rejections. Passwords, the bane of modern life. Well, let’s not compare them to Corvid 19.
Hmm. Crack a chink in the drawbridge to let Jim Elder bring in a folder of art to write up for a new catalogue. But this gives me some real work-from-home work. For money.
Sterilise the incoming material with a quick spray and then putting it outside in the sun. The sun is good.
Evening distraction. 2 G&Ts. 2 eps of Mrs Maisel.
Day 2.
Tuesday, March 10.
Who throws the morning paper over the wall? Yep. Outsider danger. Glen 20 spray the plastic cover before opening.
Spend morning in the bedroom reading the gloomy news. Posting on FB. Twitter. Keep abreast.
Shower and dress and organise clothes. Do washing. Busy busy. Actually enjoy hanging out a million teatowels. Think about them and their history. Photograph a favourite one. My favourite time of the day is showering. I have the water really hot. It is so soothing.
I spruce the bed, hang quilts in the sunshine, bring in guest room bedding, make the bed gorgeous and so fresh, fresh, freah…
I have work-at-home work to do. I settle down to the big computer at my desk. I love working here. And thus do I write up the Ken Knight paintings.
Jim has taken such a blurry photo of the artworks that in attempting to study it my eyesight goes weird and I have to stop work and readjust myself. It takes a while. Back to the art. Immerse myself in it. Happily distracted for several hours.
Craving exercise, B and I creep outside and take a very quiet walk around the district. We don’t actually pass anyone but I remonstrate with Bruce when he presses the traffic light button with his finger. We are not carrying steriliser. How could I have overlooked this?
Try to spot a tap or fountain as we walk and become conscious of how rare they. No fountain to be seen in Borthwick Park. There’s a tap on a construction site. It won’t turn. We both felt oddly soiled and can't not wait to wash at home.
Ah. B makes our drinks and sit in the courtyard. The cat joins us. Scent of alyssum is lovely. A wonderfully marked moth settles on a chair for a visit. I photograph it and seek identification.
Day 3.
Wed, March 11
It’s real.
The news is nothing else. I wonder how many million zillion times the word “coronavirus” is uttered every day. “Covid 19” is getting more use now, too, Official sources promote it. Peter calls it “the Plague”. Another friend insists on “Chinese flu”.
A lot of my FB friends are not acknowledging it. Without envy, and maybe with a streak of disapproval, I read their reports of wining and dining and partying.
I cancelled things early. People thought I was weird. They were just a bit patronising. I figured they would clue up sooner or later.
So, I have no commitments in the diary. Phone messages come from my walking group. We call ourselves The Secret Seven and took to walking after we lost the aquarobics class in which we became friends, They are meeting for a 7am walk in the south parklands. I send greetings and apologies. If one is self-isolating, one has to self-isolate. That is the deal.
And keep busy. There is plenty to do. I have paintings to write about. I have an art catalogue to write.
I have a list of projects.
I pull up the Betty Snowden manuscript of my father’s biography and make another assessment, It has been dogging me, the sense that the buck stops with me and that it needs more rewriting than is practicable. Peerless in her research, dear Betty had a leaden hand as a writer. If only I had money to pay an editor., I think for the millionth time. I fiddle with a few more lines and put it away again.
I eat a lunch of three-seed crackers and vegemite and
I go and do some housework. Washing. Sweeping the yard a bit. Keep moving. Moving.
Day 4.
Thursday, March 12
Awaken glumly.
Nice weather. Do the same morning activities and finally convince Bruce, who is happily immersed in his studies, that we need to go to the beach and walk in the fresh sea air. It is already mid afternoon. Who knew that the traffic would be a nightmare? Where is everyone going at 3.45pm?
We park at South Henley. The tide is high. The sea is still and flat. The sky is cloudy and interesting. It is beautiful although harder to walk at high tide, The water itself feels silky and warm to the feet. Summer has warmed the shallow Gulf waters. A few people are playing gently between the sand bars. A man is out there standing on a paddleboard with his dog. Gentle, benign scene.
We take a decent but not ambitious walk, skirting the few other people on the beach.
And we repair home to make G&Ts. Well, I have G&T. Bruce is into tall Bloody Marys with Sriracha and Worcestershire sauce and lime. He is never in a rush for dinner after one of these, funnily enough.
Day 5
Friday March 13
Another day. Same sinking sensation waking up in the dark autumn morning. Oh, but
I have a commitment in the diary. It is a phone interview for TheBarefootReview. The wonderful children's theatre legend, Dave Brown.
Chug through the day writing up some more paintings for the catalogue. I welcome the research. I love to research. In these new circumstances, its sense of purpose helps in the quest for normality. The cat is highly attentive. He often "helps" me when I'm working. He settles down on top of the papers on which I'm working.
It doesn't matter. I'm feeling restless and unfocused. I do some cleaning.
We take a brisk walk around the local streets. We see a couple of people. We look at them suspiciously. They look at us suspiciously. It is like being in a Sci-Fi novel, except we are not.
The phoner with Dave is sheer frustration. At first, I can’t get him on the phone at all. Then, when I do, the phone drops in and out and in and out. Ring back. Try again, Is this better? Seems that he lives in the Hills and has an Optus phone with dodgy reception. He’s now standing in the street outside his house trying to talk to me but I hear two words and he is gone again. I say I’ll email the interview. And so I do.
Frustration.
And the Internet now is down again.
Bloody hell.
Is this the way things are going to be?
Day 6
Saturday Narch 14
I am grateful to have woken up. Again. The night has been rocky with strange and swiftly-forgotten dreams and, of course, trips to the loo, each one requiring the mountain climb of going back to sleep. I am always astonished that sleep comes.
Everything feels surreal. Here we are, shut up within our urban walls with an amorphous but very serious threat outside.
My every day begins with a phone conversation with P. Through hell and high water. Sometimes we are worlds apart. As we are today. P is all flip and, tense about Holden Street and soccer at the Hindmarsh Oval and his audiences and having to move his hit Fringe show to the Studio Theatre as opposed to The Arch, which he loves. He is worried about his audience and excited about who will be at Vilis Cafe after his last show. I should be there, he says. Of course, I would like to. I feel guilty. But P
does nor get this isolation thing. Indeed. He thinks it is a neurotic idiosyncrasy of mine. I have been copping it ever since I said I was pulling up the drawbridge. He sees me, with my hand sanitizer and wet wipes, as a highly-strung germ phobe. Yes. But this situation is not about me. I change the subject… He is beloved above and beyond our assorted brawls.
And I swirl into another home day.
It is amazing how swiftly the days can pass, even days in which I find my self gazing, spaced-out into my sweet little courtyard garden, looking for bees or jumping spiders. I have been so long so loudly concerned about the alarming loss of insect life in an urban landscape vandalised by greedy cement-headed developers. They win. Life loses. Insect life is devastated.
And now, here we are, with our human population under the extinction cloud.
I reflect on the Adelaide Festival’s theme. The big opener was Mozart’s Requiem illustrated by a dancing choral mass and a brilliantly explicit theme of the extinction of all things, from language and architecture to life itself Prescient or what?
Day 7
Sunday, March 15
Here comes the dawn, so slowly. I make coffee and give the cat his cat soup breakfast.
Is that a morning plane I hear?
People are coming home, going home.
Reading Corona news, corona news.
Peter very hyped about his last show at Holden Street and the business of having to clean the dressing room and bump out. He expounds on the difficulty of this and the theatre culture of shared dressing rooms. My insistence of spraying things with Glen 20 goes down badly. But he will try to co-operate, he grumps. I feel bad that I am not at his last night. I wish things were otherwise.
Panic call from son re furniture moving the primping his brother’s condo for an imminent sale. Our wonderful N is sick. She is a professional property stylist with her own Styling business. But the doctor has refused to diagnose or treat her until she has been corona tested. She is waiting for results, sick as sick in bed. Aching limbs, coughing, headache…but, says R, she is not having corona-like breathing issues. Sounds like flu. She has been sick for some time. She recovered enough to go to Womad with the kids but relapsed and has been living on analgesia.
Everyone is fearful and stressed. Everyone is trying to protect everyone else from potential exposure.
A number of vulnerable people belong to this family.
This is a terrible time, financially and logistically. My heart goes out to my poor, valiant, brave, good sons. Life has never come to them on a plate. I wish it could.
My little garden is a refuge. B makes G&Ts. We sit out together a while. I water. Nibble almonds. Make dinner. Roast boneless lamb with roast cauliflower and I invent a new dish by going back to write some more Heysen material while cooking leeks. The melted leeks burn. We decided not to waste them but to pretend they are a new caramelised special. Almost convince ourselves, but not quite.
Two episodes of Succession. sleeping pill.
Day 8
Monday, March 16
I waken in a fret.
Bruce has an appointment with the GP over his blood results. I have been unhappy about this since they made the appointment on the phone. We are either in isolation or we are out., Going to the surgery is the maddest of all expeditions at this time. I phone the surgery and explain that we would really like a phone consultation and are happy to process the fee also over the phone. They will check and call back. Can’t believe that of all people, our own doctor would summon B out of isolation. We wait for the phone. It does not ring. B finally says that whether or not it rings, he will not attend the 3,45 appointment, I almost collapse with relief. No call. Then B checks his email - and there is the “consult” on email. Phew. Phew.
More dramas with sons and property moves. Both have clean-ups urgently needed, one for sale and the other because he has moved out. N is still sick. But she bravely bundles up and styles the condo. Waiting tensely for the corona test result but they believe her illness is not the same since she has been ill for so long. It was a relapse after Womad which has brought her down so hard. Now I’m feeling bad since I gave them the Womad tickets for Ry’s birthday and they felt they had to use them since they are so expensive. Ry says Womad’s good spirit had a “vibe” of caution and people were not as close as usual but I am afraid it was an international jet set Petrie dish and there will be a massive spike in cases next week when incubation period finishes.
Meanwhile, my godson has collapsed and been admitted to hospital and one of the kids is sick.
I don’t know which in direction to direct my worry.
B and I take a brisk walk around the block and post a card off to Phyl Skinner. See our neighbours and talk over the fence. Neighbour is involved in hospitals admin and contracts, says they are busy setting up a corona centre at the Wakefield Hospital which is near here and has recently been vacated as the functioning hospital moved to a fab new building. Pleased that Adelaide is moving quickly in readiness. Gives one a little sense of reassurance.
We come home to our nightly G&T’s. Aaaah.
Amazing dinner of Goan green curry with leftover lamb and cauli, plus Sazi Indian salad. Food is good, Pigged out on sugar-free chocolates.
Two sessions of Succession. Sleeping pill.
Day 9
Tuesday, March 17
A dark start. Wake to the barrage of bad corona news and emails from Woolworths announcing that they can’t supply most of the things I have ordered. I get a $91 refund - and no meat, veg, yoghurt, rubber gloves, air spray…
The order is due to be delivered between 7 am and 10 am. Hope there is still milk. The fridge door was not properly shut after B served himself jelly and yoghurt last night and the remaining milk has curdled. We drink coffee black. It is not bad.
My favourite time of the day is showering. I have the water really hot. It is so soothing.
Fresh, hair done, I present myself to myself for the day.
I spruce the bed, hang quilts in the sunshine, bring in guest room bedding, make the bed gorgeous and so fresh, fresh, freah…
It is an important daily discipline.
Don't let the standards drop.
No lolling in trackies in this house.
Tidy room is tidy mind. Made bed is a good day ahead.
I can’t bear to look at the media. But I do. It is all coronavirus. Of course. One out of three Australians will have it, says a bulletin. I tell Bruce. He questions the source and cites American references. We argue.
Peter calls at the usual time, suddenly more switched on to the situation. He has been out and about of course. Thought he would get some zinc from the discount chemist warehouse and discovered to his incredulity the empty analgesia shelves. He talked of the strangeness of doing so much radio on the phone. He really likes personal contact. But it is changed. He said people had told him that they felt reassured to hear him as usual on the evening radio and that gave him a sense of purpose. Indeed. Indeed. If he is in a sanitised studio on his own with a producer in a sanitised room of their own, then the show can and should go on. An essential service.
Messages from Woolworths say the delivery is on its way. I wait. Finally, a young Indian man brings two plastic bags through the gates. I tell him to leave them on the table. But he still wants my signature. Something is wrong with this picture. I reach out and awkwardly make a mark on his electronic pad and then withdraw to sanitise my hands. That was not 6ft distance. Damn. I can’t seem to win.
So, they have sent green beans in a packet and four of the five turnips I ordered. They have refunded 1 turnip. Sriracha sauce, bathroom fragrance, sugarfree jubes, milk, eggs, 1 pair small kitchen rubber gloves…
I bring this feeble offering in, obsessively spraying.
I feel as if my blood pressure is through the roof. I’ve always suffered from anxiety at the best of times. Like my mother and her father. Anxious family. It is horrible. I’ve always joked that I have a PhD in worry. This universal phenomenon exacerbates it to billio. For days one has had this constant panicky feeling, a bit shaky. Some days I simply cannot breathe. I gulp for air like a fish. My concentration is crap. I can’t get into the book I am trying to read.
So many things don’t seem important.
Bruce and I are fractious, although he has made several affectionate gestures of understanding, which is unusual for him and shows that he is as aware as I am of our cabin fever vulnerabilities. I can’t comprehend that he can read incessantly about the virus. Inexhaustibly. He has been studying medicine for two years now and he wants to know and understand everything.
I, on the other hand, just don’t want to look any more.
My first thought on waking in the morning is that it is still there, the news is still there, it has only just begun, the future is hollow with fear and danger. My darlings. All my darlings. They are unprotected. Everyone has been slow to pull up the portals. The Prime Minister gave them a deadline. It was Monday. Yesterday.
I hope the girls are not too terrified. I remember my childhood fear of nuclear attacks and doing drills at school. We were very afraid that the world would end. On the Beach was a real story, not fiction. This is another version.
I ring my friend M at Encounter Bay to keep in touch and tell her we would soon be down, albeit not doing our usual togetherness routines. Months ago I had asked her if they had a liberal face masks supply to share in the Mt Compass Medical Clinic. She said they were having trouble getting supply then. Now, she says, they are desperately short and have only a few for serious situations. The doctors are no longer seeing people with any corona-like symptoms but emailing their referrals to the drive-in testing place at the Repat. Ordinary sick people with no flu-like etc are still welcome.
The phone cuts out. I start surfing the net for meat delivery services. Find some but now, between Adelaide and Victor, I can’t seem to coordinate delivery. Feel helpless.
Sam is offering to get what Woolies could not deliver. He is going to the store. He has to go out. Schools are not yet closed.He has to do school collection. It is OK. He wants to help.
I am riven and in a mess at the idea that he should be exposed by doing something for me. There is a lot of to and fro. My heart aches. It pounds. My head spins. I succumb to his generosity, partly driven by the lack of fresh cat meat. Cat gets loose stools with tinned food. Ugh.
Sam rings a number of times from the supermarket. I only want a couple of things. I thought it would be in and out. He thought so,. But things are not there. He rings and asks. He says it is not crowded and the whole place is heavily sprayed with methylated spirits. But they don’t have chicken thighs, don’t have pork and veal, don’t have stay-fresh lettuce… That’s pretty much the list. He chooses alternatives and later drops them at the front door, blowing me kisses down the hall.
My emotions still are in turmoil. Then Sam sends a text which blows me right off centre and brings me to tears. Responding to my concerns about him being out and about for me, he says that protecting me is one of the most important things in his life. It took my breath away. He is a loving, loyal, sweet, beloved son, but I have always felt to the bottom of my core that it was me who had to protect him. I have always felt I had to protect all the brood. My antennae are always wiggling, worrying about them, wanting things to be good for them, wishing I could do more…. I have never thought of the tables turning. And then I thought of my mother and the way I turned into such a protective creature. That was the beginning of my audience germ phobe intolerance, worrying that I might catch something that would impact upon her. And Sam, of course, was the most dedicated carer for her. Those protective instincts of his were already in full operation then. A lot has happened to him since then. Not easy. He has suffered betrayal and the madness of others. He has suffered depression. He has pulled himself through it and risen to a new phase of maturity. He has never stopped being a powerhouse of love, patience and dependability for his girls. And now,. sweet joy, he is partnered by one of those rare women who is beautiful inside and out. They both are. They deserve each other. And I am so, so lucky that they care for me. Oh, how I hope we can all get through this thing together. It is early days. The worst is yet to come.
G&T time comes. Bless.
I have set up a phone conference for Women In Media SA (WIMSA), so head to the phone to host it. Fabulous free call service. We discuss the state of the world and then decided to get meeting with or without others, Several have just emailed in apologies but we nd we have a strong, fruitful, hour-long meeting outlining ideas for teleconferencing and Zoom meets, feeling that many journalists working from home would really appreciate support and wisdom on that predicament from freelancers who are used to it, ideas for stories and rounding up contacts. Wed hear some of the issues in the Tiser now that so many of journos have to work offsite and how the technology is made complicated when one has to use a laptop instead of banks of screens. There will be quite some tech challenges for journos in this period, but the paper is coming over the fence every morning, so good onto them all, I say.
Have lovely beef sausages for dinner with Sa’s zucchini/tomato sautee and broccoli followed by diet chocolate and the last episode of Succession. Woe. There is another series but we don’t have access. We watch a 600-pounder.
Day 10
Wednesday, 18
Wake to that sinking feeling. It is real. It also is autumn and the sky is dark. Usually, the planes start flying over at 6am but this morning there is just one at about 6,45. Weird. The world is going very quiet.
I start trying to organise things. We are running are out of yoghurt and other stuff. Already. I scrape the last dregs and add my last berries.
Long talk with Peter for whom the coronavirus pandemic is now a very real thing. Nonetheless, he thinks I focus on it too much, am spending all day looking for negative stories. Um. He has trawled up some positive stories about treatments.
But he imposes a total overseas travel ban. And he rails against hoarders!!!!! Stop, it, he shouts! Just stop it!!! This will go on until July! July!!!! And what are we now? 10 days.
Heath minister gives a long lecture on washing and social distancing. The press corps is shown lined up for the announcement and, clearly, there is no social distancing there.
Bruce and I make a pact. We will try not to let cabin fever break us down. We will try not to irritate each other. We will try not to press each other’s buttons.
But, we don’t feel like moving to EB yet, Ennui has set in. I start cleaning a cupboard and then flop away to text messages and chat.
I try to make a new online order with Woolies. Get all the way to the end to find that all delivery days are “closed”. Not even an option for next week. I see a line about “priority customers”. Ah, seniors, the infirmed, and those in isolation. That’s us. I submit. The website says they will make contact within 48 hours.
Obviously, they can’t cope. Meanwhile, we have enough to go on with and we must be very prudent.
I note how already I am super aware of my use of toilet paper and tissues. Everything is precious.
I feel a need to be busy, busy. I attack the shelves in bedroom cupboard and realise I have bitten off more than I can chew. I have years worth of first aid material in there. Bandaids and painkillers and unguents. Ancient treasures, Belts I have never worn. Stuff. The sight of it all, disembowelled, exhausts me. I go and sit in the garden and call B to see how she is coping. She is extraordinary in her quiet stoicism. She finally confides that, thanks to corona, 18 month-on cancer checkup has been postponed by the hospital leaving her worried that it might be coming back just as it did for the old girl who lives across from her and is now in palliative care. I feel for her terribly. She lives alone with a dog and a cat. I can only admire her wonderful inner resources. She describes the hard world around her but does not complain. We talk for about an hour. It is pleasant in the garden. Hot with heavy cloud cover. Bees are busy.
But the cupboard calls. I go in a gaze at my mess and suddenly am overcome with ennui. What do I think I am doing?
As I walk up the hall to check the mail, I am just thinking that my old colleague Penny is probably totally swamped by her book reviewers looking for distractions while trapped at home and she probably hasn’t any new books for me to review, But there on the ground is a Tiser parcel! Happiness. I leave the parcel in the sun to sterilise it.
I continue to puzzle about how to get provisions while in isolation. I am so used to hurtling around. I am an extremely active person. I shop every day usually. Because I can. Because it is a short, brisk walk. Exercise and fresh provisions, Choices, choices. Now shortages and inaccessibility.
Coles advertised for 5000 workers to get through all this. Sam applied. They had him do an aptitude IQ test and told him that he was one of 36,000 who had applied. He does not hold out much hope.
Supermarket workers are now essential services and they are under immense pressure.
My phone pings regularly with more corona headlines. I can’t bear to look. Enough, We know. It is the reality. The dreadful waiting game.
The day whiles on. I do brisk walks up and down the house and run up 6,000 steps. I write about the last painting in the heap Jim as given me. A lovely Heysen. I relish the complete escape involved in writing about paintings.
The Internet has gone down again. It does this every afternoon now.
Bruce is making a bolognese dinner. I worry about how long the provisions will last. I now wish I had hoarded. My “hoard” is very modest,. I have a tiny kitchen.No real room. And, while the one and only cupboard looks quite busy, it is not at all well stocked when I analyse the contents. Not that we will starve.
Bruce is sure the food problem will level out when people stop panicking. I daresay he is right but I am worried about access to things when one can’t go out.
The ennui sweeps over me again. I feel a bit like crying. I never cry. But lately, there is plenty to cry about. I think about everyone else, about people with fewer resources than I. And, of course, one can reach out since one is in isolation. Not that I even know these abstract others.
G&T time finally comes. We sit in the garden and eat almonds with our drinks. We hear a distant plane. They are rare now. And the hum of the city’s traffic is softer than usual. The world is getting very quiet.
We watch two white butterflies flirting and mating, relishing their little romance in our wee courtyard. Watch rthe bees. The cat joins us. He always likes to be where we are.
We have the blackbean pasta with our bolognese. It is gorgeous. Sugar-free chocolate for dessert.
And we decide to catch up on old Netflix series we hace forgotten, so here’s Kevin Spacey before his life and career were destroyed by his sexual indiscretion. Wonderful actor.
The cat has not joined us. I worry and send him summoning thoughts. A few minutes later, he leaps softly on the bed and come purring to give my stomach a knead. Then he sits on the end of the bed, I thank him for coming to my thought call and tell him he can go about his business again if he likes. He turns and looks at me and does exactly that. I get a thought back from him. “Surely that was worth a treat”. Yes, it was. I get up and give him a treat before he exits.
Day 11
Thursday, 19th March
Dark and gloomy morning.
It is still real.
The cat is not on my feet. He pops through the courtyard cat door as I put the kettle on, ready for his cat soup breakfast. Turn on the radio and it is the same valiant effort to be a bit upbeat. Ali Clark on 891 (which is all I listen to) is interviewing lovely Festival Centre publicist Anthea Hagar about where she takes her dog walking. Belhanna, it turns out, has a lovely new dog park.
A plane goes over. What a wonderful sound. Who thought it would ever be so uplifting. Domestic travel is still happening. The world is moving. Oh, and I can hear another one. I smile. The sky is growing lighter. I can see my glorious flowers through the window now.
Bruce has immediately picked up his iPad and immersed himself in FB and Twitter posts. His ability to concentrate and trawl through minutiae is incredible. He reads snippets of news to me. There is some good news about a place in China which dealt well with Covid 19 and returned to life.
I fiddle with FB but find so much tiresome. I try to put up the lovely condo my son R has to sell. It was my dream that he would never have to do this. I so wanted him to have an asset. But times are cruel. Myriad dreams are falling over as I write.
Lots of phone messaging. Sam and Haley are to the shops. I send my list which is not huge. Berries? Oh, please, some berries!
They call from the supermarket. No loo paper, they bleat. I promise to share mine - which is not a big stash at all, but I think supplies will recover and they need it now. And, after all, it was Sam who gave me the Tushie which saves me so much loo paper. Wish B would take advantage of it but he loathes the whole idea.
I feel sort of off colour and trembly. I have felt like that a lot. I am not hungry, Then I am ravenous.
Finally, I make some keto bread toast with cheese and tomato and fresh chili from my garden.
Long talk with the ABC producer Stephen Raeburn about the state of the world and where to find fresh stories every day…He is ringing about the ABC phone app and tonight’s session with Peter on books. But there is no keeping off the other pressing matters. I talk about the segments I used to include in my daily newspaper column - profiles of unknowns, nonentities, which always proved that everyone is or has a good story. You just have to stop and ask.
Back to the desk to check my copy. The cat helps. He is very interested in all this people-at-home business.
I perfume and make the bed. A made bed is very important under these circs. A symbol of order and routine. I shower and dress as if I am going somewhere.
Self-respect.
Now to nasty nitty gritty dealing with recovering what we can from the fabulous 4-month trip to the USA we were scheduled to be taking in May. I’ve already told Flight Centre we will accept the credit deal with them because we still intend to take the trip. Lara says fine, She is snowed under with immediate travellers but will come back by week’s end with details on thst. B gets on the blower and cancels out RAA travel insurance since we have not travelled. I get going with the Expedia and the luscious Omni Hotel in New Haven. I booked it last July the moment we had the reunion dates to ensure just the yummiest experience at the Yale Reunion. I also had to pre-pay it, which gave a better deal on the price. However, the website says that the better price included stipulation that it would not be refunded on cancellation. Gasp. But, not too bad. I took Expedia’s insurance on the deal. All I have to do is to fill out some forms. Wellll….hours later battling with perverse forms giving uncooperative messages in red, asking this and that and then wanting attachments one does not have. I try to print out data and the printer announces it is not printing until it gets a new cartridge. Ugh. Bugga. I take photos of online receipts and also photos of the PM declaring the travel ban thing that, since I will have to wait until such time as Sam can get me ink, I can send those…and the bloody website keeps rejecting them because of file names. The Internet keeps dropping out. I use my phone hotspot. I try over and over until, OMG, I’ve closed the window and the whole process has evaporated.
Stressed and beside myself doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Put it aside and try again tomorrow,” soothes Bruce.
Sigh. I take the advice.
S has dropped off supplies. Now and I have a big yoghurt each. More booze and milk and cheese. And also potting mix and seeds for my projected bag bed.
Pleased at the announcement that the government has recommissioned two recently closed hospitals in the covid cause. Hundreds of beds. They are braced for the worst. 37 cases so far.
Oh, and the Internet is down again. This happens all day long now.
It is scary. The system is not coping and the crisis is only days old.
P calls to tell me he is worried about my anxiety.
G&T in the garden. Companionable.
I ring M to catch up She’s full of the joys of the Barossa and its supportive community. She says she is isolating but then says she had a guest at the kitchen table. But it’s OK, she knows here and knows where she’s been. The gym, as it happened. I flinch.
Atkins penne with the rest of last night’s bol sauce
Later I do P's Shelfies segment on ABC 891, talking about the books which shaped my life.
And go to bed with the laptop, to read sweet stories about human kindness amid all this greed and hoarding and then see the new corona stats from Europe where they are dying like flies and the crematoria can’t keep up with the bodies.
My heart pounds in abject terror. Please let it spare my family. Please. Please somehow let them be protected. Sam and Ry out there battling to take care of their families. Brave good men in their prime. They have yet to have life easy. The children. Their loves.Their hopes. This is too awful.
Not a good idea to check the news at bedtime these days. Sleep is going to be hard to find. Heart is in mouth.
This nightmare saga is just beginning to unfold.
