I have very little to say about today. I wake very much earlier than I need to, with a nagging headache, stuffy nose and really quite bad stomach ache. Stumbling out of the bedroom, having been unable to find my glasses in the folds of the crumpled duvet, with the tiny dog under arm, I am desperate for a wee and a glass of water. I try to put Lettice out but she’s not having any of it and I know exactly how she feels. My eyes are gritty with sleep and I just want to go back to bed. The thought crosses my mind that this could be it – maybe I’ve got CV.

A few hours later I wake up again, feeling marginally better. I cycle through the news apps on my phone to see if anything catastrophic (more catastrophic?) has happened overnight. Still feel dreadful, and can’t face turning on my laptop. My plan today was to wake up and start writing, to capitalise on Monday’s frenzied working session. Instead I start playing Tiles on the New York Times Crossword app because that’s about all I can process.

I start to worry I’ve picked up the virus. Go to the loo again and discover I’ve got my period. All is explained.

Yesterday I was talking to a friend on Twitter who was asking when people started prepping for a possible lockdown. And, without wishing to sound ridiculously smug, I had started thinking about supplies in the last week of February.

I’d been to a dinner party at a friend’s where we were discussing the reported Chinese cases of Covid 19, and how the numbers didn’t sound right for a city with three million more inhabitants than London. The Swiss and the French had already started banning large gatherings, and I drew my own conclusion that for a rational government like Switzerland to take such strict steps on what seemed like little evidence meant they probably thought the Chinese were lying about their figures.

So I went onto the Internet and ordered five N95 masks, just as a precaution. I did a little shop in Aldi, and one in Morrison’s, to make sure I had the basics covered, and on the 2nd of March I emailed my GP surgery to get a six-month repeat prescription of all my meds.

Anyway, the reason I was thinking about this is because I take a prescription drug called Tranexamic Acid which stops heavy periods. Without it normally I would be confined to the house. Hah! Clearly not an issue right now, but still it beats rushing to the loo every thirty minutes, and if I hadn’t the foresight to order back then I would have to be braving a pharmacy today during lockdown.

Anyway, I have nothing more to add to today’s diary: I’m writing this just before midnight, having had a little second wind, after a day spent largely asleep. I haven’t been sleeping much recently so a day of napping probably wasn’t a bad idea. In between naps I managed to make myself my first avocado toast of lockdown, finished yet another re-read of A Provincial Lady in America, and started again on A Provincial Lady in Wartime. A somewhat pertinent read at the moment.

(If you would like to read EM Delafield, then her collected works are currently a bargainous 99p on Kindle.)

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