Day Nine, July 12, 2020, “It’s Covid Times, Man!”
No one from UK Border Control has checked to see if I am being compliant with my signed commitment to self-isolate for fourteen days. Multiple sources have told me that no one will. Still, I am not tempted bust out of quarantine, for all the reasons – don’t want to be a vector, don’t want to pay the fine, don’t want to break my word, and, most of all, don’t want to be shamed in front of the doormen, Antony, Greg, and Pavel, whose polite sympathy and willingness to banter I have tested and not found wanting. Also, I am old enough to sit still. Unlike the bands of maskless twenty-somethings, maligned for their inadvertent death threats to boomers like me, quarantine has not produced in me a throbbing reservoir of social and sexual energies in need of release. Social isolation was conceived by the old, for the old. Would a college-age science genius ever come up with this remedy for pandemic? Plus, self-isolation is not difficult for a person in my circumstances. It is m
