Why I've moved into the yellow shed

The fortress and the last stand.

April 25, 2020

Dear Diary – Day 34 of self flagellation and segregation from humankind and viruskind. I am no longer certain of what is actually happening beyond my gate. People are confined to their homes, yet thousands are arriving daily at our airports without checks. People with no viral issues are dying because they shouldn’t go to hospital but are now being told they should be going.

Meanwhile the virus has been described as “intelligent”; some even claim it has been deliberately “cultured”. While I know the latter refers to Petri-dish creation but, when linked to the former, my mind has now transformed Covid-19 into a highly-trained, multi-lingual dangerous international secret agent with a mission to kill, while carrying a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets and practising the declension of Latin verbs.

Three doors to baffle the evil one.

My mental health is good; my wife says it is not, but I no longer trust her as she goes out sometimes and I think she may be liaising with, and even working for, the virus. I no longer know if I am a partisan or persecuted, or both. 

I have varied my routine over the weeks. My sanctum has been my tiny study. Few people have seen it, it has never been photographed. At weekends I move into another room. This has given me stability but, in the last few days, I am less sure about safety.

If you are being hunted, for whatever reason, then there are times you need to hide. I have kept my distance from people who may have the virus about them. I no longer restrict my awareness to their coughs, sneezes or breaths, but suspiciously eye their pockets, just in case they have a whole family of coronavirus hitching a ride and ready to scarper up behind me and crawl into my unsuspecting body.

This is a rational fear. As a result, I have created ‘bolt holes’. I spent one entire day hiding beneath a bed in a room with a bare floor so I could hear virus footsteps. It did not come, but I did find one of those vacuum-packed bags that contained my clothes from the 1970s. This gave me the option of a disguise. While the virus is “intelligent” is is scientifically ‘new’, so has no idea what I looked like circa 1978. I now only wear very wide flares and shirts with outrageous collars. Covid-19 may be intelligent, but I have cunning.

I once spent all day under the shower. The steam concealed me, but, for a good number of reasons, this was not practical as an everyday solution. Neither was the entire day I spent in the boot of my car. Then it hit me… the sheds.

The rowan sentry standing guard.

I have three sheds, a blue one, a red and a yellow. These were originally outhouses – coal, storage, wash house. These sheds are all actually the same colour, only the doors are colour coded to assist my forgetfulness. I have chosen to hide in the yellow one. As well as being the furthest away from the path, it also has a window. 

The intelligent virus will know the occupants of the blue shed are the members of a belligerent woodlouse colony. We meet occasionally; it is never a comfortable communion. The red shed is a mystery. It is the most sound, contains strange things my wife has collected that are in sealed boxes, and has entertained mice in the past. I avoid it. The yellow shed is Spiderland. Arachnids of all shapes, sizes, and on every degree of the beige to black spectrum, spin their webs there. They only bother me if I am motionless for any length of time. Should I be writing or reading, only my feet and legs attract their attention and, even after several hours, I am able to break free relatively easily from their silken bondage. This has become my chosen weekend refuge.

My protection is enhanced by a solid sentry – my mystical rowan tree. As everyone knows, sorbus aucuparia, to give it its proper name, has many magical properties and has been recognised for centuries as a powerful weapon in combating malevolent forces. Given Covid-19 delivers death, and seeks out the vulnerable to deliver it to, like a demonic Amazon from a warehouse in the darkest corner of hell, I have proclaimed the virus malevolent. It may take umbrage at that but, frankly, I don’t care if I hurt its feelings.

Science has been somewhat lax in establishing how the robust rowan can stick it to the coronavirus, but I am confident, in the event of a confrontation, it would triumph. Using this impeccable logic, the virus now needs to venture past two gates, then journey down a narrow path, engage in combat with my mighty rowan protector, then infiltrate the blue shed and wrestle with the armoured woodlice, make entry to the unknown dark confines of the red shed and then, only then, should it have enough puggle left, confront me, my flares, kipper tie and my spiders in my yellow fortress.

My wife believes this is excessive and abnormal behaviour, but she would say that wouldn’t she? I have taken binoculars to my shed to see if she deliberately leaves the gate unlocked. Obviously the hourly arrival of the 95 Leven to St Andrews bus is the most tense time as that would be the most likely means of travel for the virus. A careful watch on the harbour is also required in case it launches a seaborne offensive. At all times I wear a shoulder holster. I purchased it in Poundland. It is plastic but functional and holds a water pistol. This pistol is filled at all times with Dettol. I will use it, if pushed. Make no mistake about that.

I know I am more fortunate than many in the defences I have at my disposal. I see them as vital to my continued mental well-being and wish my few readers safety in the trying months, and years, ahead.