I would hazard a guess that I am now a fully paid-up member of the Covid-19 club. A few weeks ago, I felt unwell, with symptoms that were as curious as they were unwelcome. When it was fully embedded, during a three-day absence from work, I could not visually focus on anything and felt as if I was having an out-of-body body experience. Each time I opened my eyes my pupils suffered infinite duress, leaving me with little choice but to lie back and hope it was a temporary aberration. On the fourth day, maybe through a sense of duty, maybe not, I returned to work. No doubt that could be deemed as reckless, but hindsight is a wonderful thing and at the time I didn’t for a moment believe I had this ravenous killer that is as indiscriminate as is it unkind.

I then developed a cough, a dry number that would not produce any phlegm. I awoke in a pool with sweat stinging my eyes where it had dripped down off my bald bonce. Work meetings proved problematic as I attempted to mop my brow with a sopping wet shirt cuff as I stifled the coughs that attracted indiscreet chair shifts away from my person.

Then came the lethargy. I attempted to convince myself I was not ill and went to the gym a couple of times. Despite my best toils, my output was a good 25 per cent down on normal keep fit service as I put it down to a curious case of influenza.

Post sweat, there were some sporadic chest pains and the nightly head burn, although thankfully I was now working from home. My core and body were frozen, and I would sleep with the heating on fully dressed in a T-shirt, hoodie and arctic jacket despite my face blazing away like a Calor gas heater. The chest pains felt like an early sign of a coronary and the feeling of hopelessness was tangible. Medically, there was nowhere to turn. I lay on the bed and spent periods gasping for breath, alleviated by standing up and walking around, which was like a military operation as I felt debilitated.

I called 111 twice, but the message was clear: do not bother unless you are really struggling for breath. It seemed as if the only way to know once and for all if I was afflicted was to be hospitalised. No doubt there are arguably hundreds of thousands of us walking about infectious as the dear old NHS creaks under the strain of what she already has had thrust upon her.

The time off advice was not helpful. I was told to self-isolate for seven days, which I did. If someone in the household is displaying symptoms, I should stay home for 14 days. Thus far, I believe I have had the virus for more than four weeks and am only now, in the previous week, truly over the hump. This issue, to my mind, comes down to one thing: the lack of testing and the ability to be furnished with the knowledge as to whether we are potential candidates, or victors who have come through coronavirus and now smell the coffee on the other side.

For people like us, the minions, we are but guessing at whether we had it, have it, or not. At first, when being open with my belief that I may have been one of the early fallers, pre-lockdown, I felt like a leper: no doubt those with less than compassionate demeanours will soon learn as it inextricably casts its murderous net far and wide and does not discriminate on gender, social standing or ethnicity. Some friends did not bother to call and check to see if I was ok as they, rightly, prioritise their own families, thus intensifying the feeling of isolation.

I know some who have undoubtedly also contracted Covid-19 and others whose parents have been taken, cruelly, before their time, but one thing I can tell you is the symptoms differ from person to person. The sweats, the bone-chilling cold, the intense heat, the lethargy, blood trickling from my left nostril and the complete loss of taste and smell (which is not a bad thing if you have ever been unfortunate enough to taste my cooking) all add to a sense of foreboding.

As I write this my eyes are heavy, I feel drained and yet I will force myself to take up the opportunity of my once daily form of exercise. We are on lockdown and the sun is shining but as I finally shake off the oddest flu in history, I am left wondering why the Chinese government are not making reparations as they make at least a token gesture to make amends. Instead, they watch the world suffer as they remain less than gracious and non-committal in a vacuum of self-denial. No doubt there will be another repeat of an as-yet-unnamed virus in years to come, while the rest of the world continues to succumb to the dictatorial superpower as we suffer in silence, pain and with symptoms that could stop a six-tonne elephant dead in its tracks.

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher