I’ve lost it. The black Sharpie day-count I’ve been making on my ceiling tells me it’s day 19, but I’m almost certain that can’t be right. The small potted plant in my bathroom, Ferguson, is no longer speaking to me after a disagreement about the best Ocean’s film (it’s clearly the original, idiot). And I’m worried words no longer make sense.
I’m lying, don’t listen to me – I’m just feeling a little dramatic.
We’ve hit the halfway mark of our two-week Covid quarantine and things remain bright. The staff are friendly and attentive, the room is clean, and I can’t complain at all. Two-weeks lockdown in a nice hotel is definitely not a short straw. And my colleague, Andrew, has just delivered me a jar of black coffee granules – thanks!
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