As I contemplate the imminent arrival of old age, my current issue with Covid-19 is probably an indication of how things will go from now on. My symptoms have throughout been minor with one exception: tiredness, even exhaustion. Following a morning of epic lethargy, I need an afternoon nap to get over it. Even though, by own low standards, I slept well last night, this afternoon there was no escaping the need for an afternoon sleep. To describe it as just a nap does it a disservice.
I remember my paternal grandparents when they were only sightly older than I am now on a Saturday afternoon with television alternating between the BBC and ITV – there were no more channels in those days – and by the first horse race had started as part of the ITV Seven, they’d be fast asleep, rallying only for the second half of the rugby league on the BBC or, the main event of the afternoon, the wrestling from somewhere like Dewsbury Town Hall. I never needed to sleep back then, but if tomorrow is anything like today, I have seen the future which is me snoring myself awake.
My partner, who is the brains of the operation, tells me to not fight the feelings of tiredness and to not overdo things. And beyond some minor household chores and food preparation, I have not overdone anything. Yet as soon as my head hit the pillow this afternoon, I was in a deep and, for once, dreamless sleep. But then, my grandad rarely overdid things on a Saturday, either. Nonetheless, after a hot brew and a sandwich, he would soon be out of it.
My feeling is that the exhaustion has something to do with my body fighting off the virus. I am no expert, but hopefully this is a sign of my immune system being engaged in a bar room brawl, one onto which I shall later pour a glass or two of wine, just to move things along a bit.
