As I am pretty certain that I had the virus for a few weeks from late December to 11 January (main symptom: fatigue), I've been more or less under self-imposed house arrest since recovery. I venture out to the supermarket round the corner for a quick replenishment of supplies, might go as far as the small post office to send off birthday cards or paperwork to the accountant and on the last two Sundays, I've gone as far away as the station to try and get things on a Sunday morning, when there are fewer people about. To the station and back is a whopping 3 km.
Otherwise, I remain cooped up in my flat. All I can do to stretch my legs is to walk around the apartment. I have finally figured out that the longest route in one direction before having to turn back takes me from the pot plant on the floor in the office room, to the furthest corner in my bedroom: 19 steps.
When I settle down to watch TV in the evenings (Midsomer Murders, Poirot, Wycliffe and Vera - my education in the art of murder continues), I use the four-minute commercial breaks to pace backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.
That is about as much exercise as I'm getting right now, slumped in front of my computer or hunched over my cross-stitching.
I know just how a caged tiger feels.
To paraphrase a Turkish expression, may it pass quickly.
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