From joking in the pub to six weeks in isolation: How I realised Covid was no laughing matter

March 9, 2020. Sat in my local, having just watched Aston Villa get trounced 4-0 by Leicester City, I joked to my brother about a light cold I developed over the weekend. He responded by passing me a pint of beer at arm's length, quipping that he didn't want this deadly virus they kept talking about on the news. 

Such scenes were probably being played out in pubs all over the country. Every news bulletin seemed to be dominated by reports about this mysterious illness emerging from China, but most of us thought we had seen it all before. The previous 20 years had seen similar scares about bird flu, swine flu, and the Sars virus, all of which we were told would bring the western world to a standstill. For those affected, the impact was devastating, but for most people life went on as normal.

Three days later, a Thursday, Boris Johnson appeared on television, instructing anyone with a 'new, persistent cough or temperature' to self-isolate for one week. But it all sounded a bit vague and woolly. If everyone followed his advice to the letter, the country would grind to a standstill, wouldn't it? Besides, how can a cough be both 'new' and 'persistent'? Sure, I had been coughing for a few days, but I looked and felt perfectly healthy. It would look a bit lame if I rang in sick with touch of the sniffles.

The following day, all became clear. My condition deteriorated rapidly through the day, and by early afternoon I was exhausted and dripping with sweat. I left work about 5.30pmish, uncharacteristically early on the busiest day of the week, and drove at a snail's pace for the 25-mile journey home.

And I know, looking back, the next bit doesn't reflect well on me. But about a mile from the office, realising at this stage that I would be unable to leave the house for a while, I stopped off at the supermarket to stock up on groceries. I know, I know, I should have known better. But this was still a full fortnight before lockdown, and nobody had any idea of what was round the corner. 

Within minutes of entering the house, I fell asleep, and didn't wake up until the following morning. I spent the rest of the weekend in bed. It would be six weeks before I was safe to inflict myself on the general public.

By Monday I was well enough to perform light duties, as long as I did not leave the house. Working from home was something few of us had any real experience of. Yes a few semi-retired journalists would send in their copy by email, but it was very much the exception to the norm. To begin with, my work largely consisted of interviewing people over the telephone, and sending the copy in by email on a tablet computer. This was clearly not ideal, and towards the end of the week I was invited to come into the office to collect a laptop computer. Still visibly ill, sweating profusely and struggling for breath, I warned anybody who came within a few yards to keep their distance. Again, rather foolishly, I stood in a small office with somebody who showed me how to use the device. 

The recommended week in isolation came and went, and my condition showed little sign of improvement. The hardest part was climbing the stairs. Every day, the routine was the same: struggle downstairs for breakfast, and then struggle back up. About 15 minutes of breathlessness and vomiting, followed by recovery, allowing me to go about my day in relative normality. 

By the time the Prime Minister announced lockdown on March 23, it all seemed largely academic. I had already been confined to the house for a fortnight, only venturing downstairs twice a day to eat. A colleague did helpfully collect a few essentials from the office, including my much-needed contacts book, which made work a bit easier.

In those early weeks, information was hard to come by, and the chance of getting a diagnosis non-existent. About four weeks in, with no signs of the symptoms abating, I tried calling the NHS Direct helpline for advice. After about an hour on hold, I was asked a series of questions, after which I was simply told to remain in isolation, and to call back if they got worse.

Had I got Covid? The operator was non-committal, saying that it could be a severe case of flu. All I could do was sit and wait. It was only when, in desperation I turned to Dr Google, and entered the questions I had been asked, that I discovered Covid was classified into four categories: level one was asymptomatic, level two was mild, level three was intermediate, which correlated with the answers I had given, and level four was critical - resulting in hospital admission. This provided at least a little reassurance, and makes you wonder why they could not have been more open about it. 

By Easter, I was largely recovered. Still coughing, but able to navigate the stairs without drama, and the following week, after six weeks in isolation, I judged myself ready to face the world once more. Was this safe? Well the official guidance was a week in isolation, so presumably so. But at a time when coughing in public was still the number one social faux pas, there were many awkward moments while queuing outside the supermarket.

Twelve months later, I suffered a heart attack - a fortnight after my first Covid vaccination. Nobody ever explained whether there was a correlation, although I was asked several times if I had suffered from Covid, and I heard anecdotal evidence that there had been a spike in heart problems among people who had suffered the virus. 

Like many people who were taken ill at the start of the pandemic, I will never know whether I actually had the virus. What I do know is that it was by some margin the worst illness I had ever experienced, and would certainly not want to go through it again. 

Of course, I was one of the lucky ones. For me, life quickly returned to normal, unlike the 232,112 who never recovered.