Time to panic buy. Obviously. We went into Pinoso. Lots of traffic for a Friday afternoon and the supermarkets were awash with people. The Indian restaurant seemed to be bursting at the seams and I can only assume that some of my fellow Britons were getting in a last vindaloo before the quarantine (it had to be Britons as no Spaniard would consider eating at 6pm). The thought of two weeks sitting in front of the telly to watch Sálvame Banana and Supervivientes had been enough for me to think only of stockpiling. A bottle of brandy (the first since Christmas), a couple of bottles of wine for Maggie and several packets of cat food were our haul. There were people with masks. The cashiers had nitrile gloves and seemed to be drinking water in copious quantities. There were customers with trolleys full of bog roll. I can only suppose they were thinking of the effects of terrible telly too.
It's quite strange how quickly it all crumbled. This morning and for days before it has all been nonstop virus news but I was still expecting to meet my sister tomorrow given that she's on holiday nearby. We'd obviously have eaten out, because that's what one does in Spain. My sister apart it would be an odd weekend when we didn't go to the cinema. There were also a couple of possible events for the weekend including a do at our local restaurant and a charitable walk. Next week the only things on my list were the language club and a trip up to Valencia. Originally I'd been going to Valencia to see some of the (cancelled) Fallas celebration but that had transmuted into an opportunity to take in the Counter Culture exhibition at the Modern Art Institute in the city. Not anymore. The country is closing down. My email and WhatsApp are full of messages cancelling talks, concerts, events and exhibitions that I'd booked up. For one singer that's the third cancellation. She's a young woman; I'm sure she'll survive the virus but who knows if someone as frail and old as I will?
So, from now on, for a while, I'll be trying to remember not to touch my face and to wash my hands thoroughly. And, of course, every cough and every twinge is a sure sign that I'll soon be calling the freephone number to get advice on self quarantine so as not to block up the intensive care unit too early. The more I think about it the more obvious it is that I need to crack open that brandy and get in my last few episodes of a splendid Spanish soap whilst I still can.
