I caught my Covid back in lockdown’s Stone Age — that long-ago time when people still clapped for the NHS and dressed up to go on Zoom. Happily, I didn’t have to go to hospital and, after a fortnight of gently viewing the Kardashians and accidentally flashing the pizza delivery guy, I recovered (not sure the pizza guy did).
After I felt normal again, a doctor came round to give me an antibody test. There were five stomach-sinking minutes of horror while I waited for the result … uniquely, it’s the only blood test where you’re praying for it to be positive (I didn’t want to find out that all that sweaty dreadfulness had been down to some squalid viral interloper).
It turns out I was crammed with antibodies. I suddenly felt like immuno-He Man, both powerful and benevolent, pushing buttons on the DLR for my weaker brethren and popping out to buy Calippos for everyone on the street. I wore my mask and washed my hands, but on the whole was extremely smug about my immuno-superpowers.
Since then almost everything I’ve heard has chipped away at my invincibility. People tell me that although they clearly had Covid, they’ve got no antibodies. Or you hear about households where everyone had the same symptoms, but some tested positive and some negative (my uncle and aunt both suffered equally but only he won the antibody lottery). It increasingly seems no one knows what immunity looks like or how long it’ll last. So with a heavy heart, I’ve realised I’m probably not indestructible … it’s time for me to hang up my cape (but I’m keeping the mask).
I’ve never been one to encourage weight loss for the sake of it. I’m absolutely opposed to fat-shaming; I watch Lizzo’s joyful exercise video every day (often more than once). That said, lockdown has left me feeling out of shape. I’m heavier than I’ve ever been. It’s not that I want abs you could crack nuts on (though I wouldn’t say no) but I’m worried about what it’s doing for my mental well-being.
* I’d been struggling for ages to get back to my pre-lockdown regime when I remembered that I’m always much more motivated when there’s some element of competition. I didn’t, for example, perfect the rumba for fun. I wanted to win Strictly (and thrash Lesley Joseph). So I telephoned the divine Alan Carr, who is Prozac in human form. He immediately agreed to a competition: we’d go for one last truly Bacchanalian blowout and then both try to get in back in shape. After two months, whoever’s the closest to their ideal BMI buys the loser a cheeseburger. Just being conscious about eating and exercise is already making me feel happier. We’ll see who’s won by Bonfire Night. Spoiler alert: it’ll be me.
* The place we chose for our final orgy of bad calories was Annabel’s. I’d been there a few years back, taking instructions from an oligarch accused of some crime or other, but that was before its mind-blowing refit. Now there’s something utterly, shamelessly fabulous about the place. It looks like the technicoloured Capitol from the Hunger Games, but on steroids. I felt like I was constantly being slapped in the face by a wodge of cash wrapped in peacock feathers. It was glorious in its way, but I couldn’t quite forget the economic disparities of the city outside the door. When I left, stunned by excess and guilt, I felt entirely ready for eight weeks of sober self-discipline (and bought three separate copies of the Big Issue as I tottered home).
