This Covid fellow is such an evil creep. His attention-seeking is phenomenal, it takes my breath away – literally. I’ve never seen someone so obsessed with finding the spotlight. But he’s certainly got what he wants now. Nobody talks about anything else these days. What I can’t get my head round is his astounding promiscuity. He’s hitting on everyone from royalty to heads of state… and potentially, me. Even my husband isn’t safe, because clearly Covid’s an equal opportunity kinda guy.
Now, I’ve never been a vain person, and I reckoned, since I’m not exactly in my first flush, that my pulling power was vastly diminished. But Mr Covid doesn’t seem to care. He’s not after the young, it seems, not even after the cougar pack. He’s going fo the seriously long-in-the-tooth – and I gave up my mini-skirt in the sixties. My mother would roll in her grave if she knew I was being hit on by such low life.
I’m doing everything in my power to avoid him. I’ve shut myself up in the house,
only going out for quick walks and constantly looking over my shoulder to see if he’s lurking. I make a raid on the supermarket once a week. But whereas I used to love a good potter around the shelves, taking my time, now I’m like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. I charge round, grabbing random stuff from the shelves, all the while looking down every aisle in case Mr Covid has spotted me. I even go in disguise, my face covered by a scarf, glasses, hat pulled down. But he’s the master of shape-shifting. I never know where he is, when he might get me. I don’t yet have a clear picture of him – I’m being hit on by a ghost.
I’ve got one brilliant weapon, though. I realized early on that Mace or a personal alarm, even a gun, would be totally useless in keeping Mr C at bay. But this hand sanitiser I bought – the last one in the shop – is something else. It’s perfumed with, wait for it, Love Hearts! I used to enjoy munching on the odd tube of Love Hearts, as a kid. But the smell, let me tell you, is truly vile in sanitiser form. So I smother myself with this disgusting perfume before even minor excursions. I’m really praying it will see him off. I can’t even stand the smell of myself. But let me tell you, Mr Covid, your days are numbered. No one is seduced by you. And soon we’ll all become immune to your charms. Then your power will fade, and you’ll have to slink away, back under the stone from whence you came. That day can’t come soon enough.