Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Eighty Two

A day of cleaning. My love and I swept the floors, cleaned the kitchen and the bathrooms. We did the laundry and ran the dishwasher. Tedious chores, though necessary, as most chores are.

In this time of the grippe reborn cleaning has become an even more arduous task, truly endless. For every time we leave the house, or bring something inside, there is cleaning to be done. We must wash our hands until our skin is raw. We must scrub the bathrooms, the sinks, the light switches and door handles. Everything must be scoured and scoured again lest we overlook something.

I long to return to a time where living in general filth is a matter of simple, blessed laziness, and not a breach of quarantine protocol, allowing our defences to be penetrated by the dread lord. When letting some dust settle on the furniture could plausibly be said to not be a dereliction of one’s duty. In the meantime, it is probably time I washed my hands again.

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