On Friday, I had a lovely evening out with fourteen other people, friends, family. There was food, laughter, much hugging and kissing.

On Saturday I went speed dating. With foreign language students. So not dating exactly. And definitely no hugging and kissing.

On Sunday, I went to see my brother and his wife and we hugged horses. And each other.

On Monday night I had that nasty tickling sensation in my throat. I said to Big G, ‘I’m not well.’

‘You’ll be all right tomorrow,’ he said. The lack of sympathy was due to optimism. Or neurodivergence.

Day One, Tuesday. I get up and say, ‘I’ve got Covid.’

‘No, you haven’t – you’ll be fine,’ says Big G for the same reasons.

I know I have it before the test result comes in. I’ve had Covid before, eighteen months ago. It was a Christmas present. Too much hugging and kissing. I recognise the virus rushing around my body trying to find somewhere to land. The positive test result comes up in seconds. I post a photo of it on social media and I’m immediately supported by 45 wonderful authors who wish me well. And two men telling me Covid is a conspiracy. The conspiracy is beginning to kick in though. I have work to do, an edit due. I spend time on that and then I message people I met over the weekend to check they are all right and haven’t got Covid.

My brother is due to go on holiday. I hope he’ll be all right. And as for my life partner, Big G is Big G. No problems there. Healthy so far – no sign of a virus. Strong silent type. Besides, if he felt unwell, I’d know about it, believe me. He works from home methodically. He soldiers on and brings me lots of water. He knows how to cook that.

In truth, I don’t feel too bad – a bit achy. I might have got away with this…

Day Two. I wake up feeling like every part of me has reached its sell by date. And it’s the publication day for The Wicked Lady. I check – I have wonderful reviews, such kind comments. I try to reply to everyone – somewhere in the mist I might have called the book The Witch’s Tree…

The plot and I have now parted company. I go to bed and stay there. I drink so much water.

Day Three. I can’t get up in the morning. I try. The body won’t work. The head weighs two tons. The virus – whatever anyone wants to call it – has got hold of bits of me I didn’t know I had. My heart hurts. My hips certainly aren’t lying. And the cough….

I sleep and sleep. The joy is that when I go downstairs at six, the Olympics are on. I was a bit of a gymnast as a teenager. I lap up every moment then I realise I must have lost twenty minutes as the programme is over. Big G is mooching around, looking for food. It’s not just that he can’t cook – he has no imagination. He settles for leftovers and eats them by himself. I haven’t eaten for three days and I don’t want to. We’ve run out of tea. My son rings his father up and tells him how to make a bean salad.

I feel the pits. I look outside and there’s no pleasure in sunset, in the garden, in the future.

Will there even be a future, I think?

This is so not me….

I drag myself into the garden. Batface the stray cat is there and I feed him. He’s starving, of course – he spends an hour hugging me. This is the turning point. The other two renegades, TC and Murphy, are inside looking for Dreamies.

Bed is the only place to go. I’ve done nothing but sleep for days. It’s the best thing.

Day Four. Oh joy! My head’s not banging, but I have a temperature. The virus is on its way out. I make the effort. I have a shower, dress in somethng that isn’t pyjamas, go downstairs, eat a bit of charcoal bread with Marmite that Big G has heroically toasted. I read a book my editor wants me to endorse. It’s good. I do a bit of social media. The reviews are coming in for The Wicked Lady and I’m delighted. Life goes on.

I put my clothes in the wash and look round the kitchen. It’s chaotic, but not too bad. Flowers people have given me are dead. The plants need watering. The sourdough starter has been temporarily ruined. but he’s kept things ticking over; we have food, the cats are happy, he’s painted a wall in the hall, I’m hydrated. I scrutinise Big G for any signs of Covid and there are none. I hope he doesn’t get it next week…

I sit at the laptop and do a bit of editing. Just simple stuff. I’m not mentally sharp. I crave human contact. I go outside and sit in the garden.

I’ll make that bean salad tomorrow. I need the protein.

Day Five. Runny nose. Coughing. A few aches but nothing to complain about. Big G buys me an oat chai latte and we make a bean dish together. Yum.I’m back.

I’ll take a Covid test tomorrow and hope it’s negative. I have to be sure I’m not contagious before I go out. Then I’ll paint the town red. My need to have fun is bursting at the seams.

Day Six, Tested positive. So did Big G, and he’s really not well. Muscles ache so there’s no walk in the woods; I’m just making soup and watching the Olympics.But at least I’ve got my mojo back, the sun is shining and The Wicked Lady is getting great reviews,. Things are on the up.

Day Eight. Negative test. Made sourdough. Big G feeling worse than ever. I can’t go out until he’s tested negative. But it’s beautiful in the garden and there’s an edit to finish…I can’t complain.

It’s a nasty little bedfellow, Covid. If we’re lucky, it’s a week-long pain in the butt. Pain everywhere, joints, muscles, the lot. And when the body sinks low, so does the spirit.

But have courage. It’s temporary, hopefully. (I know people with Long Covid and that’s no joke!) And when you emerge from that place where you feel like the Grim Reaper is beckoning, you’ll appreciate everything so much.

My advice? Roll with it. Heal. Listen to your body. Take vitamins.Sleep.Sleep some more.

And believe in the fun times to come. They are out there…