Amy’s bottle of antibacterial spray is virtually grafted to her hand and Amy herself is invisible beyond a perpetual mist of Dettol. Everything gets disinfected, even the dog after it’s been outside to pee. The mail is sprayed in case the postman has Covid; the council tax reminder was so soggy that the amount owing disintegrated altogether.
Supermarket missions have become logistical challenges of D-Day proportions. Amy leaves her handbag in the car since it would be a virus-magnet and puts her payment card in a pocket along with antibac-wipes for the trolley handle and the check-out keypad. She wears her most enormous sunglasses and a surgical mask from the batch she had the foresight to buy on eBay in January. Thus attired like the ghost of Michael Jackson, she enters the fray. She always takes items from the very back of the shelf and her principled opposition to plastic-wrapped fruit and veg has long since been overtaken by her horror at the way other shoppers pick up naked apples and aubergines, examine them for blemishes, and put them down again. If another shopper comes anywhere near she holds her breath, with the result that she nearly faints in the pasta aisle. At the check-out she stands so far away from the person in front that nobody realises she is in the line at all and she keeps being queue-barged. When the man behind her stands too close she realises she should have worn her hooded waterproof and when he stifles a cough it takes all her resolve not to abandon her shopping altogether and run away screaming.
Once back at the car Amy disinfects the door handle, key, steering wheel, gear stick, payment card and her hands. She has not found a satisfactory way of disinfecting the disinfectant sprayer and decides that in future she must bring a second disinfectant sprayer. At home again she sings Happy Birthday three times while scrubbing her already raw hands and then she wipes every single item she has purchased before putting it away. As recently as last week Amy’s partner Alan was teasing her about all this. Now he finds her scrupulous hygiene rituals strangely reassuring, even if last night’s ratatouille did taste of Dettol. After supper Amy goes online to buy a hazmat suit.
© C P Jenkinson 03/04/2020
Corona Caricatures 