I suppose we are all statistics, one way or another. For myself, being a statistic this week is all about Covid. While I do feel pretty grotty, even now, there is a ray of hope in another statistic.
Yes I am one of those 19,748 local folk who have tested positive for Covid. There does seem to be so much around with many people – friends, neighbours etc – all going down with the dreaded lurgy which is, of course, Covid and one of its variations.
I seem to have plateaued out over the last few days. I am mostly better but have remained feeling fatigued and drained. Then there is the feeling of nausea which comes and goes. Rachel seems to have progressed through reasonably well, much to my relief. I have ventured out, to the supermarket, the petrol station, the bathroom supplies place and our village shop. Yesterday I visited the cake stall on the village green and was instantly relieved of £10 in exchange for two large, home made cakes with such finesse and aplomb I hardly felt a thing as my pocket was emptied.
Then there is the little blue line. I refer to the Lateral Flow Test, naturally. The fluid surges along through the little window with a certain gusto and the control line appears which such uncertainty in a flash. You know it is there without question. I peer again after a few minutes, no sign of a second line. I tempt myself in the thought of binning it there and then; a cheaply acquired deception and half-truth. Another 5 minutes and the faintest, thinnest suggestion of a second line is wondering whether it should appear. It does. It might be hardly perceptible but it is there.
I sigh. I still have the bug, some 10 days later. The Covid app tells me I can carry on with life unfettered, providing I don’t have a hacking cough. I don’t have a cough but I simply don’t feel right about returning to normal life. I wanted to go to church this morning but the thought of being amongst 300 other people, indoors, seems unfair on them. I could wear a mask but I question if that would make any difference, other than making me feel conspicuous and let’s face it, it’s hard to breath when it is so hot and you’re wearing a mask.
So, I remain a statistic, at home. Looking on the bright side, given that there is an inevitable likelihood of everyone going down with Covid (something about “living with it”) I must admit, this is a great time of year. The weather is dry, hot and just nice for sitting in a shady corner of the garden to read the newspaper and drink gallons of tea.
Mind you, not everyone likes this heat. Rachel has set up little drink stations for passing hedgehogs, the birds etc. I feel prompted to unblock the hedgehog superhighway which I accidentally blocked a couple of weeks ago.
Rachel is master of managing the heat in the Quirky Museum very well, almost too well. It is a tad cool in the middle of the house and yesterday evening it was a mere 22C. I reminded Rachel I would be looking to turn the heating up if it were January.
The cellar is nice and cool, at about 16C and, with the door open, cool air is drawn up through the house and out through the attic windows. It seems to work and the house is cool.
With us warming up for the heatwave of 38C or more over the next few days, I decided to make some strawberry jam. Obvious thing to do, isn’t it? Either that or a vindaloo.
I followed a Delia Smith recipe and it worked a treat. It really was so simple and the ingredients are merely strawberries, sugar and lemon juice. Easy peezy. There is something so nicely English about strawberry jam, home made bread and listening to the church bells in the distance.
Back to statistics, for now, or at least being an individual with a voice that needs to be reckoned with – that is Rachel taking on Virgin Media. You see, our broadband, phone and tv package was coming up for renewal. The simplest thing is to simply roll forward into the inflated premium and pay the going rate.
Instead, Rachel (ever so watchful at our day-to-day finances) decides to negotiate an improved price. Navigating through the automated switchboard with its automated options and then the lengthy queue to speak to a human being, turned out to be quite a challenge. Virgin Media, just like most other large companies, don’t really want you to talk to them and they do everything they can to prevent you from talking with them, while at at the same time, pretending they have a high standard of customer care and willingness to pay attention to you.
Eventually Rachel’s persistence paid off. We might be a customer reference number but we are also human beings, we are real people with a voice that needs to be heard, not some passive client who pays up regardless. We got a good deal but I dare say Rachel will be blocking out an entire morning in July 2024 to repeat the exercise. Not unless we get so fed up with the awful remote control they provide and throw it out of the window; just don’t get me started on that one!