Breaking news from the block, brought to you from my camping chair round the back. The dreaded lurgy is here, amongst us. Or at least was. Panty Lady at No 10 was out on her balcony this afternoon, scrubbing green stuff off the wooden decking. I stopped to say hello for a moment and have a chat, as I do. And she confessed.
She was ill a few weeks back. Where’d she get it? Who knows. We’d already been in lockdown a couple of weeks when she fell sick. She is very much the responsible, sensible sort of person, is Panty Lady. Not the reckless, thoughtless type of person at all. Although obviously, there have been occasions in her past when she has answered the door checking neither her attire nor who awaits on the other side of the door. Other than that, I’d say she’s exceptionally responsible.
Maybe she caught it at the supermarket. Who knows? But caught it she did. And thoroughly rough she was for a good week. All the main symptoms. Fever, cough, breathlessness, extreme fatigue. She’s much better now. Most importantly, she is, we have every reason to believe, past the point of being contagious. She was quick to point out that the only times she left her flat when ill was to put out the rubbish. And she did so late at night, carefully sanitizing after her.
To be honest, I’d have assumed if anyone in the block were to get the lurgy, it would be No 2. It’s always No 2. But not this time. But I’m back to scrubbing my hands with the sort of enthusiasm that will leave them skin free by this time next week. Just in case.
The Mexile 