Real life

Why I’m thanking God, my immune system and garlic

14 August 2021

9:00 AM

14 August 2021

9:00 AM

‘Contact a GP if you’re worried about symptoms four weeks after having Covid.’ That was the NHS quote on the end of a story about Piers Morgan, who was still feeling ill three weeks after getting the lurgy. Me too, Piers.

It took the builder boyfriend almost as long to get over it, and his father. We make an interesting control group, don’t we? Piers Morgan and the builder boyfriend’s father are both double-jabbed. The builder boyfriend and I are not vaccinated.

And yet here we all are, going through exactly the same thing as we try to get over Covid. Of course, the government wants to argue that the vaccinated escape hospitalisation. That’s their prerogative. So when the unvaccinated, like me and the builder b, aren’t hospitalised, that doesn’t count.

Can I add into this control group the double-jabbed girl who gave me, the BB and his father Covid? She’s a twenty-something au pair in a big house where the builder b is doing a job. She had just got back from a festival and kept making him snacks and coffees, which was very nice of her.

One day she disappeared into her room and the owner of the property had to tell the BB the double-jabbed au pair was now doubled up on her bed with Covid.

A few days later, the BB became ill, and his father too. They both did a test and came up positive. A few days after that, there I was, with body aches, sticking the darn thing up my nose: two lines.

I chewed garlic. I knocked back Beechams. I looked wistfully at the four wormers I had recently bought from the country store, which our horses just happened to be due. Yes, Ivermectin.

‘If it gets bad…’ I nodded grimly to the Equimax. The BB told me not to be so stupid. So I stuck to the garlic.


I ran around after the BB, making him drinks and food. But after a week we were both lying in bed. I felt as though an ice pick was stabbing me in the neck. The BB descended into a sleep so deep I had to keep poking him to see if he was alive.

After another week, he rose from the dead like Lazarus and declared himself ‘stronger than ever’. A good bout of the Delta variant, he said, had strengthened him up a treat. We often joke that the BB has been alive for 500 years and is really a vampire, such is his fortitude.

I’m pretty strong too. But I couldn’t get up. ‘What manner of thing is this?’ I groaned. ‘Ow!’ And the ice pick stabbed me again.

I was the worst patient. And the BB was the worst nursemaid. He was better, so he simply wasn’t interested.

‘Orange juice!’ I whimpered. For I was making my way through the EU Tropicana Smooth mountain, if there is such a thing.

My body must have been crying out for vitamin C as I was drinking two litre-and-a-half cartons a day. The BB plonked a carton down by my bed every so often, to save me crawling to the fridge.

‘When I think of the lightly scrambled eggs I made you,’ I thought, murderously, as he whistled around downstairs, making himself dinner as I groaned and sobbed. But that’s men for you.

Anyway, this control group. It’s now more than three weeks and I still have no sense of taste and smell. I have what feels like a bad head cold and a horrible temper on me. I mean worse than usual.

Is anger a Covid symptom? I have it bad. I’m really, really angry with the builder boyfriend for not scrambling me eggs, and I’m flaming furious with the stupid girl who went to a festival, believing the government line about the double-jabbed.

I do find one thing amusing. The NHS saying they want us to contact something called ‘a GP’ to discuss our Covid symptoms — it’s actually entertaining it’s so ludicrous.

What I really want to discuss, and I would be able to at length if this were still a free country, is the question of how all of us suffered in exactly the same way.

Jabbed or unjabbed, it didn’t make a jot of difference to how Covid raged through us. Oh, I’m sure if I had been jabbed the NHS quote machine would even now be churning one out to claim the vaccine saved my life. I’d be a brave Covid survivor, like Piers, who has dutifully thanked the vaccine while admitting he’s as sick as a dog. Good boy.

Me, I’m thanking no one. Apart from God. And my immune system. And garlic.

Because I know how much that will irritate the vaccine police.

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