Monday: Hubby wakes up with a cold, and I feel kind of tired. I head out to the supermarket for supplies and stop in at the chemist while I’m there. “I’d like real Sudafed for my cry-baby husband, please,” I say hilariously to the pharmacist. Unfortunately, the pharmacist is a man and fails to see the funny side, but helpfully suggests I buy RATs as well. We all test at home and watch those two lines appear with a panic I haven’t known since a (thankfully false) positive pregnancy test as a 19-year-old. We’re too busy to be sick this week, and I’m worried how COVID will affect my poor lungs. A quick call to my absolute hero of a respiratory nurse has me reassured and on anti-virals almost immediately.

I make a pot of veggie soup and announce I’m not cooking for the rest of th