Virus diary

The first cases of the virus emerged in the UK when I joined the gym at the beginning of February. It was one of those New Year bargains, a half-price month and I'd had pain in my knee, the dodgy one, all winter.
The GP asked if I belonged to a gym to build up the muscles in my thigh. So I was all set, and then the virus. It landed in Brighton with a superspreader who'd been jetting around the world. For a short while, the city was the epicentre, with its small cluster of cases and health centres closing.
I heard about people who knew people who were shut up for 14 days and other than that it was impossible to find much out. So much happens in a month.
I went to the gym for about two weeks and then cancelled the membership. I enjoyed some of the classes but not the sweatiness of the place and young men hogging machines, checking their phones while they took a break. I didn't enjoy seeing myself in the mirror, the spreading waist and grey topped head. My hair's gone Einstein.
So I cancelled the membership and limped a lot with the knee. It's been cold and wet, difficult on the allotment to do much and the knee's stopped me walking as I used to. As for the pandemic, I'm unprepared, having done absolutely no stockpiling. I have a packet of paracetemol and one pack of loo rolls. We don't have a big store cupboard of food, although the freezer could do with running down before the summer.
But it feels as if virus days are turning into the life that semi-retirement should be, slower and ambling, with the pressure to do anything off - except plant seeds, check mum has what she needs and do a bit of cooking.
I've begun a trial of CPD oil for the knee and I'm continuing with a short story about a conference I went to once. The bathroom ceiling needs cleaning and painting. I have mending to do and there's always the sock drawer to be severe with.