Is your neighbour sick, or is it your imagination working overtime?
I can growl. One of the side effects of my current minor cold is that when I’m not coughing, I can growl much like our dog. She’s confused.
With the pandemic panic, people are more aware than usual of the health of co-workers. Every little sniffle from the next cubicle leads to speculation on the relative contagion. When a shipment of facemasks and vomit bags (??) arrived in the mailroom last week, the common man became aware that the common cold might be growing into a monster. Will we soon have to figure out what the person in payroll wants to say without full facial communication?
At home, little has changed. We don’t have time for idle chatter, what with the schedules that require multiple wall calendars and a keen degree of guesswork on who’ll be home for supper. Sandwiches look like a plan rather than a countermeasure. Leftovers mean that meals are timely. But, if any of us fall sick, we’re going to be in share mode. Something about proximity. I have a new cool word, thanks to the media: comorbidity. I remain vague on what that means in real terms; if I have a cold AND the flu on the same weekend, I guess I’m technically comorbid.
This afternoon I happened on an article dealing with estate sales. Or, in morbid terms, what happens to all your stuff when it officially becomes junk. Does your executor simply rent a dumpster for the week, or does someone try to enrich the value of your heritage by reselling all the great buys you made on eBay?
