Over twenty years ago we visited the Maldives. Within two days I was convinced we had discovered paradise and we were looking at timeshare. Within four days I would have paid someone $1000 to airlift us out of there. Paradise was too boring. The same is true with Coronavirus self-isolation.
You start full of optimism, languages to learn, photographs to take, housekeeping or gardening to be done. Then you quickly relapse into the essential questions, do I gave enough gin, loo paper, cigarettes, cat food.
This second phase, the pre-hording phase, seems normal and rational. But then you move to phase three. Mad panic. Then you start buying booze and food at a terrifying rate. I now have 3 bottles of rum, 6 bottles of scotch, 5 bottles of gin, 2 bottles of cognac with more to come.
My freezer is so full I’m facing the terrifying dilemma, deciding what is more important ice or chicken breasts. The answer is obviously ice. I have a spreadsheet when the various foods go out of date so expect some spectacular meals of chicken breast, cottage cheese and yoghurt.
As a result, I’m eating and drinking too much but justifying it as stock control. I still get up at 6.30am but mainly to see if there’s any slots at Ocado.
The worst part, rather like the Maldives, is that you are trapped in a nice place with all the food and booze you want but you want to step off the island just for a few minutes. I would give up all my gin for a cup of coffee at the Haven/Ship/Mayflower.
So isolation is a holiday, in part, I’ve had to stand down our laundry service, gardener and window washer but I just washed and ironed the bedding and clothes this week and I can’t wait until I can pay someone to do that for us again.