My housemate has Coronavirus.
I panicked yesterday when I found out. I was standing outside my workplace, just about to unlock the door, when I received the WhatsApp message from him.
I cried a lot. I felt incredibly guilty as I had got the bus to work that day, as I do every day.
My housemates do not share the same emotions, or the same concern for hygiene. They will soon find out if they do share the positive test result. So I am staying firmly put in my room for the next two weeks, only going downstairs if I need to open the door decked out in gloves and two facemasks. Luckily I have an ensuite, and I have a mini fridge and a kettle in my room. Today, my parents drove all the way up to London to leave their old microwave and a food parcel outside my house.
Today, in this microwave, I have learnt how to (sort of successfully) cook pasta, mushrooms, spinach and eggs. I have been using my sink to handwash my facemasks. I did Joe Wicks PE this morning. I’ve had the radio on all day just to hear another voice.
Two of my housemates are refusing to take a test and continuing to go to work and pop to the shops.
‘Pop’ to the shops. Drop in. Get the bus, and the train, and the tube to work. In an area with a predominantly BAME population, with many people over 60.
This diagnosis has made me realise that a lot of people are incredibly selfish. But it also made me realise that people like my mum and dad, and a woman I work with who’s offered to leave groceries outside my house, and my friends who are booking in to zoom me, are incredible. Even though I’m alone in this room, with my microwave on the floor in the corner and my washing draped everywhere, I feel very loved and very lucky to know so many good people.