My 2022 has gotten off to what might best be described as a slow start. After bringing in the bells on Hogmanay by watching a spectacular firework display from McCaig’s Tower light up the sky over the New Look clothing store on George Street, I was forced into isolation for much of the following fortnight by a positive Covid test. The new year has been a real damp squib so far.
Rarely has something been both so momentous and utterly mundane as when I left my flat for the first time after my ten day quarantine. It was Friday morning and I was only walking to work, but I hadn’t been outside for any reason other than to take out the bins since I had been for my PCR test, so I guess it was something new for twenty twenty-two. I had a real spring in my step as I took to the pavement. It was the type of experience that catches in the back of the throat and takes hold of your breath, although much of that could surely have been attributed to the morning school run traffic.
Little had changed around town since I had last been outdoors. The Christmas tree in the square had been taken down but some of the festive street lights remained, albeit in darkness, sort of like the forgotten bauble you find underneath the sofa in March. Along the Esplanade, a familiar fragrance ascended from the shore at exactly the same spot it usually does across the road from the youth hostel. It was weed, only not the variety that had been coughed up by the sea. I found it strangely reassuring to know that life still goes on when you’re not around.
In most ways, it was an ordinary Friday, but by the afternoon of my first day back in existence, I was feeling sapped of all energy. Once I had done my evening yoga I was questioning my earlier assertion that I would be returning to Aulay’s at the first opportunity. At that point, I couldn’t imagine sitting and enjoying a pint of lager, and there have been times when that has been all I could imagine. During my bout of Covid I was fortunate that I never experienced any change to my sense of smell or taste, but the first couple of cans of lager I drank after work – my first beers since New Year’s Day – tasted dreadful, even accounting for them being Tennent’s. They left an unwelcome metallic aftertaste in my mouth, however, for the purposes of scientific advancement, I felt compelled to power through them and at least find out if a pint of lager was any better.
There was a noticeable tinge of emotion as I walked into the lounge bar of Aulay’s that night. That may have been because they were showing the disappointing Scottish Championship fixture between Partick Thistle and Kilmarnock, but I think overwhelmingly it was such a relief to be back. It is hardly as if I was desperately struggling with Covid and questioning whether I would ever see the inside of a bar again, but when you’ve been away from a place for ten days it can sometimes seem like an eternity.
My brother, the Plant Doctor and his girlfriend eventually joined me, and for the first time we engaged in a pub game of “how was your Covid?” Three quarters of us had contracted the virus since the turn of the year with a handful of days between each of our positive results. Our experiences were mostly mild, apart from the Plant Doctor, who suffered no symptoms at all and was testing negative again after five days, which made me wonder if the big pharmaceutical companies should be studying Newcastle Brown Ale as a potential vaccination against the illness. After a while, Covid became just another thing we would discuss, in the same way we talk about the latest Nick Cave album or the TV show It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia.
The pints of Tennent’s were going down a good bit easier than the cans did, and it was a great relief that my illness wasn’t going to affect my ability to enjoy alcohol, though the lager did still bring the usual side effect of needing to use the toilet. I was enjoying a quiet moment to myself at the urinal when one of the men who was sitting with the group at the table next to ours walked in. He had as much material covering his mouth as he did hair on his head and he was curious about why I was wearing a mask, asking “do you still have to wear those?” I explained that it’s still expected that folk wear masks in settings like pub urinals, but noted that it isn’t something people appear to be too bothered about anymore. For some reason, this prompted the maskless urinator to ask how old I am, as though consideration for public health during a pandemic is determined by the age of a person. I have never been fond of urinal interactions at the best of times, and already this one had me yearning for those days spent in isolation.
The talkative tinkler offered the information that he is 63-years-old, though he soon corrected himself and reduced his age to 62 and a half. It seems I wasn’t the only one who was having time taken off his life by this discussion. Soon he was talking about how he’s tired of all the rules and restrictions, how he’s had all his vaccines and that he’s 63 and just wants to be able to do whatever he likes. “I’m sick of masks and being told to wash my hands; wash behind my ears,” he wailed. I’ve heard of anti-vaxxers and anti-maskers, but never anti-hand washers. I assured the gentleman that I am greatly in favour of freedom but felt it would only be courtesy for me to wear a mask in the bathroom since I was recovering from the Covid I was still testing positive for the day before. The toilet fell silent, only the sound of the urine splashing against the steel as it trickled to a halt remained. Never has a pee been weighted with so much awkwardness. The vaccinated 62-and-a-half-year-old quickly zipped up and left after a brief sprinkle of his hands under the tap. For a moment, I allowed myself to think that being infected with Covid wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
By Saturday morning it was difficult to tell which I was suffering from most: the Omicron or the Tennent’s variant. My head was throbbing with all the vigour of a winter sunrise, and each time I moved I encountered a dizzying sound that would echo in my ears for a minute or two. Although it was uncomfortable, in a way it was nice to have something else to blame my weekend woes on besides a hangover. Another positive of having Covid, it seems. The aftermath of the virus continued into the following week and beyond, with the frequent brain fog sometimes making me question if certain things were actually happening or if I was watching myself in a dream. I’ve never felt anything like the sensation.
One afternoon as I was preparing a pot of soup for my lunch, I heard a knock at the front door, which isn’t a noise I typically associate with potato and leek soup. I opened the door to be encountered with a tall bearded man who was holding a large box of wine. He was attempting to deliver it to my neighbour across the landing but wasn’t getting any response from him, so he asked if I would be willing to accept the delivery rather than him being forced to take it all the way back to the depot in Edinburgh. As much as it is in my nature to be helpful, I really didn’t want to receive the box. It seemed like an awful lot of pressure to be left in charge of a box filled with expensive bottles of wine, and that’s before you consider living under the constant uncertainty of when my neighbour would come to the door to collect his goods. I had difficulty finding the words to express those concerns, however, and told the man that of course, I would be more than happy to help him.
That wasn’t the end of it, though. It was just my luck that I should take in a delivery that isn’t even for me from the world’s most talkative delivery driver. He spoke very fondly of Oban and how he often thinks about moving here with his girlfriend one day. As he was considering what those people who live in the really remote and tiny villages between Glasgow and Oban must do for a living, I could hear my soup bubbling from the kitchen. It was boiling the same way I was inside. All I could think was that if the delivery driver kept this up I wouldn’t have enough time left to eat the soup before I had to go back to work, let alone deal with the mess it was surely making. I briefly considered that I could probably get rid of him if I mentioned that I was happy to do my neighbour a favour since I haven’t seen many people after my recent isolation with Covid, although there was a risk that would only have given him something else to discuss. I probably wasn’t standing at the door for any longer than a few minutes, but these things always feel interminable.
Despite my fears that I would be spending the rest of my life waiting for a knock at the door, I was able to offload the box to my neighbour as soon as I arrived back home from work that same evening. As far as feelings of relief go, this was right up there with walking back into the pub for the first time after a ten day isolation or finding that you have the urinal to yourself. My year may have been slow out of the blocks, but it looks like things are finally starting to pick up.
Diaries of a single man 