I’m nice and rested, after a long sleep, a gorgeously hot shower and a scrumptious dinner, cooked by my delightful husband.
If this is ever over, I will never take real food, that doesn’t come from a military surplus shop, for granted, ever again. We’re trying to make supplies last, so we get freeze dried crap for breakfast and lunch, but a glorious proper meal for dinner, and it’s honestly the best part of my day.
We’ve switched up the teams again, so from now on, Me, Martin and Little Mary do nights while Thomas, Jude and Big Mary do days. I prefer it that way. Me and Little Mary have really bonded since we got here. Not just over Big Mary hating both of us, but because we’re both in the same position. Women in their late twenties who thought they had all the time in the world, but are having to quickly adapt.
The TV has started working again, but it’s just the same old “Stay at home! Protect the NHS!” ads, or a very frightened (but still quite lush) Huw Edwards, reporting that government sources are denying rumours and that everything is fine.
The radio is where it’s really at, and the internet. Frank did a great show in the early hours, just as we were coming off shift, talking about how nobody has seen Boris Johnson since it all kicked off. He said that one of his sources, who works in a Guys Hospital, told him on good authority that Boris is infected, but they’ve locked him away in the hopes that a cure can be found (and, I assume, so that he doesn’t snack on the cabinet if he gets hungry). It’s alright for some, eh? He gets kept alive (well, aliveish) in hospital, until the NHS, that he constantly cuts, can make him all better, while the public suffer…
Speaking of well off infected people, Molly Mae got it too. There’s a really creepy video going round on the socials, where she went onto YouTube, to do a livestream, and was begging and pleading with her followers for help and advice. I felt a bit bad for her, to be honest. After she turns, she’s rabid for a bit, but then she just sits there, staring into the camera, really docile, like part of her remembers who she was. She just sat there, occasionally snarling and dribbling, but always staring straight down the lens, with glassy, dead eyes.