July 21

We are going out much more these days but I have to say that any sense of freedom is more than a little compromised.

The “going out” routine is as follows:

1. Find some clothes that still fit after the weight gain of the past four months.
2. Gather together a selection of sanitising wipes.
3. Delve into the box on my desk, known as “The Clinic” and extract two face- masks – one disposable, one washable.
4. Hang round my neck special American mask holder and attach non-disposable mask.
5. Locate in “Clinic” two pairs of disposable gloves.
6. Find belt bag so as not to contaminate handle of any bag carried.
7. Stuff belt bag with both pairs of gloves and all wipes.

“The writer”, meanwhile, fills all his pockets with wipes and gloves.

And we are OFF!!

1.”The writer” dons a glove on his right hand and opens the apartment front door.

2. We both put on disposable masks for the journey down in the lift in case

a) There remains inside it a cloud of virus emitted by the previous passenger.

b) Someone gets into the lift with us and we are forced to breathe in their noxious droplets in the tiny space.

“The writer” presses both the call button for the lift and the floor button inside with the gloved hand.

3. Having so far encountered no dangers, we make our way to the front door of the building, which “The writer” opens with his gloved hand and holds open so I ,who have so far touched nothing, can slide through.

4. We make our way to the nearest street waste bin. I carefully remove and throw away my disposable mask. The writer throws away his glove then sanitises both hands as he has forgotten to take off the glove without touching the outside of it. He then lowers his mask to his chin, thereby covering his face with any virus that might have lurked in the lift. I shout at him.

So engrossed are we in the routine, we barely notice that we are now what is called OUT.

Of the Covid going out routine, there remains only the wearing of the non-disposable mask for me if I were to enter a shop and the moving up and down of “The Writer’s” mask every time he sees some threatened danger. i.e every two or three minutes., thereby successfully distributing the virus into every orifice on his face.

Eventually, too exhausted from the preparations to walk far, we return home where I open doors and press lift buttons without gloves as I will wash as soon as we get inside. The writer”, meanwhile, kicks open any door we pass through as he now can’t remember what about his person is sanitised and what is not.

Inside, more dilemmas await: do we take off our – possibly envirused- shoes before hand washing or after? Should we take off all our clothes and leave them outside? Do I need to sanitise my belt bag and mask holder?

For three months, “The writer” happily walked nowhere other than up and down our terrace and, as I look at him wearily murmuring “Happy Birthday” as he stands at the sink, I wonder when, if ever, we will summon the strength to leave the house again.