What’s the worst thing you can possibly do? Not murder, too obvious and too understandable in the current climate. Train as a ‘hands on healer’? Turn Jihadi? Because although you know nothing about religion or politics, you think you look dead cool in a kefiyah? Become an Arsenal fan?

No. The worst thing you can do is visit a hospital. In ‘normal times’ that is a thing to be avoided (I would say ‘like the plague’ but… but…) whereas now, its tantamount to suicide. If the MRSA don’t kill ya, the coronavirus will. I usually cross to the other side of the street if I walk too close to the Royal Free, but since the pandemic, I cross into a different postal region. Take the 6.2 mile detour. Just in case. No, I’m NOT paranoid. Just… cautious. Pragmatic. Realistic. A tosser.

But that was all ok until we had dinner last night. Then the world turned even a bit more upside down that it has been of late. And it was a wonderful dinner. I’m only sorry now that I didn’t take a photo of it, so you could see how splendid, how wonderful, even how healthy, do the Conways eat in a crisis. Ok, and how much the Conways eat at all times. We had tuna steaks. Ooooh, that’s healthy (so you’d fucking believe). On a bed of rice (best carb you can have, except the ones which are better and if you have a thing about potatoes) and Oriental flavoured (no bat, just plum sauce, soy and powdered rhino horn) stir-fried vegetables. Wonderful. We in fact commented on how the tuna, from a REAL fishmongers, is ‘so much better’ than the stuff you buy… errrr… at the Texaco.

An hour later Rachie was red. Like, all over, red. And hot. And shaking. And hotter. And redder. I was fascinated in that I thought she was turning into a lobster and was looking forward to seeing the claws sprout. Like a human ‘Transformer’. From a scientific perspective. From a parental perspective I was ‘concerned’. We phoned Doctor Auntie for a video consult. Who’s normal response to any crisis (bullet wounds, heart attacks, being impaled on iron railings…) is ‘take a paracetamol and see how it is in the morning’. But who this time said: GO TO THE HOSPITAL! NOW!!

Holy shit. A hospital. Noooooooooo!!! Send me to prison, send me into a fire, send me to Stamford Bridge. But a h-h-hospital!!!

They were (needless to say) brilliant. They were even (needless to say) somewhat aware of coronavirus. So we weren’t allowed to accompany the daughter inside. Instead directed to the waiting room chairs. Which I would have rather eaten than sat upon. We waited outside. As Rachie was seen by Doctor Cousin (Doctor Auntie’s son) and his registrar. Who worked out it was a massive allergic response (we knew that) but antihistamines (which had been taken) were insufficient. So they gave her steroids (and if she tests positive today from our walk SHE WILL BE BANNED AND SHAMED) and after half an hour her heart rate had lowered to near normal and the threat of lobsterisation removed completely. Which was a bit upsetting for me. Probably not for her.

It’s proper name is ‘scombroid food poisoning’. Tuna does it. Even ridiculously expensive tuna, apparently. Mel and I also suffered very minor version for a short period, but Rachie was the full event. She’s such a drama queen.

Happy, healthy, hospital free… EVERY day

A xxxx