Last week, I woke up with a sore throat. The thought of being positive did cross my mind, but I quickly rubbished it. After three jabs of the vaccine and practically religious mask-wearing for the past two years, there was surely no way I could have been infected with Covid.
However, my sense of invincibility faded; the symptoms did not.
I attempted to rationalise things. Perhaps the culprit was the new brand of nachos I was experimenting with? Though they pair well with my whisky, they might not be as kind to my throat.
Just to be safe (as any civic-minded banker should be), I went to a clinic to get tested. As I described my symptoms to the doctor, I could see the alarm bells go off in his head. He cautiously led me to the alleyway behind the clinic where he swabbed patients suspected of you know what.
Just as he brought out a swab, I let out a violent sneeze. The doctor stared at me; his eyes had diagnosed me before the test could.
Sure enough, the test came back positive. The doctor returned donning a full PPE suit. He maintained a healthy six-metre distance, just far enough for me to be unable to hear anything he was saying.
The doctor bagged my medication, tossed it to me, and gestured for me to leave.
Not only had Covid stripped away my invincibility, but it had left me standing in a musty dark alleyway with a bag of pills and no dignity. On the bright side, I had at least one whisky-nacho combo to keep me company in isolation.