I’ve lost track of which lockdown version we’re up to, but we are 10 days into Stage 4 (or a week if you count from the day that work came to a grinding halt), which we kind of splodged into from Stage 3, or 3a, or something. It’s all pretty much the same thing to us.  The days are a blur, remembered more for the number of cases announced, than the actual date.  “Oh, that was the 650 day” is how I think about a recent Saturday. At least there are promising signs of things slowly improving.

Ian spent a couple of days trying to decide if his slightly scratchy throat and marginally tight chest were covid symptoms, the start of bronchitis, or just hyper sensitivity to every single “not quite 100 percent” feeling that we all wake up with every day.  He decided for his own sanity, and mine, to get tested. It made sense for me to do the same.  Well stocked with food and loo paper, and with no pressing engagements for the next few days, we checked out the location and opening hours of our nearest drive through testing station. We packed our masks and Medicare cards, warmed up the car in readiness for its longest drive in weeks, and set off.

We had to break out of our 5 km travel bubble (permitted for this purpose as there was nowhere closer).  The feeling as we broke out of our zone was like  driving across the interstate border, on those family holidays where everyone piled into the car full of excitement and anticipation.  All that was missing was the fruit fly bin. It’s weird how volunteering to have someone jab a cotton stick up your nose, suddenly turns into the most exciting thing you’ve done for weeks.

However, just like those childhood holidays, the novelty wore off quite quickly. After all, we were only headed for the underground car park of a large suburban shopping centre, emptied of its usual shoppers and repurposed with hundreds of metres of red and white safety tape (if we ever need some, I know where to get it from). After driving past the “no filming” sign (who wants to see a selfie of someone getting swabbed???), the ladies in their full PPE loomed at us, brandishing clip boards and looking like something from a scene in an apocalyptic movie. But they were very friendly and helpful. They asked about our symptoms, checked our medicare cards/driver licences/doctors details/mobile phone numbers, and explained the process and what to do afterwards. I realised this was the longest face to face conversation I’d had with a human other than Ian, since Stage 3.  It was over in less than a minute, but there was eye contact, and I felt we bonded.

We were duly sent home with strict instructions not to leave the house until our results came back “in 3-5 days”. No problem. Leaving the house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway, what with the mask wearing and the glasses fogging, and the general tedium of retracing your steps over and over and over and over and over.  I eyed the newly set up exercise bike, now my only means of getting my heart rate up, with as much enthusiasm as I eyed the still-not-cleaned kitchen cupboards (some jobs never make it to the top of the list, even in iso).  Instead I swept the garden path, feeling liberated as I breathed fresh air, and wondered how long I would actually last inside without going stir crazy.

A little over 24 hours after the testing, our phones pinged at the same minute, and relief swept over us as we read the magic word “Negative”. I felt like Mel Gibson in Braveheart as I realised I was free to roam again, albeit within my 5 km/ 1 hour range. Then I realised it was dark and cold out there. Freedom could wait another day. My indoor bubble is warm and cosy.

So today it’s time to break out, and head off for yet another run-inside-5-km, then time to warm up the TV and settle in for another evening of Spicks and Specks reruns and reality rubbish.  No more travel shows (too depressing) or end-of-the-world dramas (too real). But if anyone is asking trivia questions, singing behind a crazy mask, or handing out roses, I’m in!