The Question of Self-Internment.

I spoke to Mel on the phone today. Being employed in catering, she knows a lot more about this coronavirus thing than I do and she set about trying to scare me into self-isolating. She’s convinced, you see, that my health issues over the past two years will have compromised my immune system and so I’ll be more prone to picking up the damn thing and more likely to suffer serious (!) consequences.

It sort of worked because she might well be right. Going into shops and suchlike now feels to me like walking the mean streets of Tombstone while the Earps and Doc Holliday are sleeping off the previous night’s carousing, and shouting ‘the Clantons are a bunch of cissies.’ You don’t know whether they’re listening, do you?

So now I don’t know what to do. Mel offered to drive over here and get my groceries in, but groceries aren’t all I need. My requirements go some way beyond that and my normal routine involves visiting at least seven different establishments in two different towns. And that doesn’t include buying some lunch. I can’t expect somebody to go that trouble, can I? Then there’s the danger of developing cabin fever cooped up alone in this house for several weeks.

What do I do? Don’t know yet. I’ll sleep on it and decide tomorrow.