Covidation!

Yesterday I was almost overwhelmed by waves, bouts, earthquakes of nausea. Rising from my sofa was as easy  as standing on tiptoe and touching each corner of my ceiling with my bottom simultaneously would be. As I am not yet in a prison cell, dispute all my efforts I have no chance of doing that.

So wtf! (Which stands for Why the Fuk Me?). The possibilities – was I having a stroke? Did the tuna sandwich at the demo lunchtime contain something rotten, nasty, life-threatening? The tuna’s revenge for the incursion of my teeth upon its dead flesh. Or was this a recurrence of the strange brand of vertigo I had as a result of the bike accident a year ago? (The meeting of head and sidewalk was not a happy one)

SAILING THE NIGHT

The night passed in its normal way, but when I reached the usual interval (or intermission. Translating for American readers. By the way, English readers, sidewalk equals ‘pavement’. Although strictly speaking the head hit the road, actually. The road won) at 3am, my pee stop, my disruption to the wonderful panoply of dreams – by the time I returned to bed, the nausea had returned times seven. Or nine. Bed became a raft on a stormy sea and this was even worse than the seasickness I will be suffering soon if I survive this. (I always have a few hours of seasickness when I go sailing, which passes, leaving me high happy and fit.) 

Awake for hours. Even the World Service couldn’t lull me back into dreamland. Paracodol was futile. And I only have half a Zopliclone left. But that was in the kitchen, much too far away for me to crawl to.

THE DOCTOR IS SUMMONED

Eventually I surrendered to Dr Google. I try very hard to avoid the good Dr, because she he it specialises in misdirection, obfuscation, confusion. And above all, panic. I have never visited this ever-open surgery without leaving it in terror, rewriting my will (you get NUTTIN’) and saying bye-bye to my Twitter followers. Twitter gets you loads of sympathy by the way. Highly recommended. People who think Twitter is only fly-tipped bollox left by narcissistic trolls forget that the majority of users are actually very nice people who love sharing their niceness. People like me, of course. And you, natch.

Dear Dr G informed me without any hesitation (there were 62,000,000,000 other answers which of course I didn’t read)  that I indubitably had the first symptoms of Covid. 

Did you know ‘:…according to a recent review, 53% of people hospitalized with COVID-19 experience at least one gastrointestinal (GI) symptom at any time during their illness…..’ (Source: Medical News Today)

LA VENDICAR

(For my Italian readers. That means ‘The Revenge’ according to Kobbe’s Opera Book)
That’s it. Those BASTARDS on the tube, flaunting their arrogant maskless grins, their I ain’t been vaxed and fukyou if you don’t like it vibe, their ‘and what’s more I support Brexit, believe the election was stolen (for my Americans), all Democrats are child molesters and QA does not stand for Questions and Answers. It stands for Quaint Assholes. Those racists, homophobes, transphobes, Tories….those potatoheaded prats! So I immediately put this on Twitter: ‘Some Mask-denying / vaccine denying moron has given me Covid! May he/she rot in hell where I will find him/her and try out every karate move I’ve learned in the past 40 years’

Assuming I will end up in Hell of course. If there is a male jealous superior being on some planet as all the God Manuals state, I’m buggered, let’s face it. The Big Bloke’s petty and pedantic rules seem designed to fill Hell with 90% of the human dead. Which is plain perverse when, according to the manuals, the old bloke designed us in his image and then laid down laws impossible for anyone designed his way to follow. Perhaps he, with all the same ‘sins’ and ‘weaknesses’ as we his creations were made with is spending all his time in Hell being punished for being the same as us, in a hell of his own design? Poetic Deific justice. Anyway, even if I wasn’t due to fry, owing to some office mistake or miscalculation or a computer glitch in the Heavenly Halls – having written the above I haven’t a hope of getting into the ‘Nice’ place. Never mind, all those fluttery wings and harp music would soon drive me downstairs, no doubt sentenced for angel strangling.

LIFE IS A TERMINAL ILLNESS

I digress. Back to my terminal illness. I had decided, as all my friends will know, that were I to contract Covid-19, it would kill me. The theory is, since I have Atrial Fibrillation, a high fever would trigger that, which would trigger a stroke, which would whack me downstairs. Zap!

So there I was staring at my death sentence, sending out Whatsapp messages to all my friends, tweeting my pleas for sympathy when one of my friends responded with, hang on, there’s a nasty nausea bug doing the rounds. Oh no, I cried dramatically, Google hath decreed my death and when has Google ever been wrong about a medical issue? I kind of forgot, mostly.

…BUT NOT YET????

I await my official NHS Government Covid test. Still feeling nauseous off-and on, but no fever. A good bout of AF this morning lying in bed listening to the Today Program failing to be interesting. But apart from nausea and the skipping of my errant heart (attempting to escape my chest) who knows how soon I’ll have the opportunity to beat up selfish squits in the delightful surroundings of legendary hellfire. Mind you, maybe that’s my Heaven? An eternity of Karate, revenge-orientated kicking and punching until Gotterdammerung and the Big Bloke Himself is condemned to pay for his crime in creating selfishness, disease and war just so’s he can have a laugh.

UPDATE 11 September (my 9/11. How ironic.) I tested positive.

Sigh.

I love you all.