I woke up with a feeling of guilt, brought on by last night’s nutritious dinner of blue cheese and a slab of chocolate. This little piggy had every intention of dusting off her Rosemary Conley DVDs, because a brush with death before breakfast is how I like to roll. I figured, I’m going insane, I may as well let Rosemary and her five-day- fat-burning brigade join the party. If you can’t hit rock bottom in your lounge, while busting out the “grapevine”, “squat punches”, and “box-step”, and perforating your eardrums to the sweet sounds of Take That! And M People then really, when can you hit rock bottom? But seriously chaps and chapettes, if you have never endured a 90s aerobics fiesta DVD box-set, then you haven’t really lived… and when you “feel the burn” it goes right down to your last modicum of self-respect. From the kitchen, Ron Moss looked on, squealing and humming with excitement, because as it turns out, he just can’t get enough of white bitches in leotards and spandex.

Fortunately for my neighbours, life had other plans, and I was coaxed into a conference call that dangled money carrots in front of me. Money carrots are now my second favourite carrots. If anyone knows where to find wine carrots, apply within.

So it was that I had to say “sayonara!” to Rosemary, and sadly close all the open tabs on my laptop promising that I can make moonshine in my garage. “36 steps to making vodka using Windolene, and a pair of pliers!” “You won’t believe how the water magically turns into wine?!” “Manifold Moonshine: the road to turning your car, and carrots, into a bar!” Well I guess my home economics projects can wait, let’s see about those pesky money carrots.

And, it appears, while I was beavering away writing a script for an Artificial Intelligence robot, who I named Phillipa in case you’re wondering, everyday South Africans were settling into Day Three. Some of you stayed at home, some of you went to the market, some of you had roast beef (it’s a Sunday after all), and some of you drove around looking for people to video and put on the Internet. It’s annoying when piggies won’t stay the fuck at home isn’t it? And do you know what’s really annoying? Those people in rural areas and townships who just won’t stay in their shacks all day with their other 10 family members with no Internet or running water. It’s not like they’re being asked to stay on an annoying family WhatsApp group for god’s sakes… it’s just 21 days, and it’s just a bit of confined space, and it’s for the greater good. South Africans just aren’t taking this isolation seriously enough. But, as luck would have it, several government managers are now available to speak to if you’re having any issues with miscreant citizens bending the rules. You can huff and you can puff, and you can even throw stones at your neighbours’ beautiful glass houses…

Ron Moss and I have had another great day together. I’ve been chatting to him quite a lot despite the fact that he really is empty inside. But, I guess he does provide some company, and at this stage I’ll take all the company I can get.

And, it seems that Day Two has been taxing for quite a few people; it also appears that I didn’t receive the “Great Global Bake Off” memo. I haven’t seen this much fucking cake on Facebook since the launch of Pinterest, where everyone decided that they were the next Mary Berry. It’s Day Two guys, this is a marathon not a sprint… but sure, your muffins, that you’ve described as scones, look moist as fuck. Congratulations. Tomorrow I guess we’ll all be swarming around our televisions doing “Global Yoga”, followed by a cleansing hoover session to pick up all the crumbs from the miscellaneous baked goods bonanza. I shudder to think what’s in store for Day Sixteen? Open heart surgery? Building the Hadron Collider out of empty toilet rolls? The mind boggles.

It seems Day Two was a sunny day in most parts of the country and this caused absolute fucking havoc. To combat the heat, I opened all my doors and windows and let the “outside in” because my courtyard is basically the seventh circle of hell and not even Satan could sit out there. But cabin fever did eventually set in despite my conversations with Ron Moss, a high-octane vacuuming session, some scintillating television viewing, and book reading. Hence, I braved the hellfire and took a stroll around my 2m x 3m courtyard for about 2 minutes. I’ve never wished for orange overalls until now, and I strongly think that orange really is the new black. My exercise sessions and strolls in the yard would be a whole lot more interesting for the neighbours if they could join in on my simulated prison experience and hurl abuse from their balconies. We could shout over the walls to each other and discuss what we’re “in for”. Maybe we could plan an escape? And, I might also be able to make some money selling contraband items… on second thoughts, my booze is priceless. But if the neighbours have anything up for grabs on the booze front I’ve got a spare kidney I’m not using. I’d trade my right kidney for a papsak of Autumn Late Harvest no problemo.

But as I was strolling around my ample courtyard, and hoovering my floors, it appears some South Africans were really cashing in on their outside activities. Social media informs me that gated community and estate dwellers are strolling around as if there’s not a fucking mutant virus on the loose. I believe that in some of these communities, children were playing together, riding bikes and gamboling about with not a care in the fucking world. Paige was actually moaning on her socials that it was such a nice day and she couldn’t see why she had to stay in her demarcated garden when there was a whole estate to walk about on. In fact she mused, ‘they can’t expect us to be cooped up indoors all day… my Tristan wants to ride his bike…’ Paige’s friends are all onboard with their “these rules aren’t for us”, and Brit confesses, ‘I’ve been out three times today just so I can take the rubbish out…’ And Brit doesn’t mean to her outside bins… Oh no, she means taking a brisk calorie burning 1km stroll up to the eco estate’s recycling village and back again. Brit aims to still get her 8km a day in. Tomorrow she might jog there, provided she has a few empty decoy wine bottles with her. Claire totally loves this suggestion and admits that she’s definitely going to be doing more recycling trips during her lockdown. “Lolz”. And when you think about it the “no walking dogs” and “no jogging” rules shouldn’t apply to gated communities and estates because the residents pay good money to live in these places. And besides, you can’t expect them to be cooped up in their four-bedroom starter houses for three weeks. Are you fucking mad?

But don’t get me wrong Claire and her mates are taking this “corona thing” very seriously… it’s just that estate living means restricted access… so there’s no ways Covid-19 is getting in without being stopped by security.

I stayed awake past midnight last night, not because I wanted to be awake for the momentus midnight curfew, but because I’m a night owl and I was really enjoying my episode of Money Heist. In any non-event, nothing happened at midnight. When I woke up this morning it was very quiet, even the birds seemed to have got the memo. But, to be fair, I live alone so it’s almost always quiet, except for my fucking fridge Ron Moss, who likes to make a cameo appearance once in a while, and shift into a loud buzzing, grinding noise. Ron Moss might not make it through the next 21 days… and I might be charged with domestic appliance abuse. I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, the lockdown has officially begun and it’s a surreal moment in time. I’m a history junkie so I always look to the past for coping strategies and mechanisms… history tells us about human reaction. We need it. As a white person there’s no ways I’m going to even try link this lockdown to apartheid South Africa, because you’d have to be some kind of tone deaf Neanderthal to think that could possibly fly… But, I guarantee, somewhere on Facebook, Annelize has made that comparison… ‘it’s like apartheid when they restricted movement, the army was out and about, and to get anywhere you needed a pass’. Sure Annelize (38), remember that… gosh you’re so astute.

So, I guess I’ll go to the obvious one, World War II. Politicians have declared a global war against coronavirus, and they’re even talking about holding their meetings in “War Rooms”. Except where the historical narrative differs, is in our reaction as a collective. I’m not seeing many stiff upper lips, I’m seeing a lot of loose bottomed pouts. And sure there’s a “We Can Do It!” sentiment, but before “I do it”, “I just need to nip out to the shops one last time before I hunker down, and maybe sneak the dog out for a quick stroll, after all it’s quiet outside no one will notice”.

And let’s all have a moment of silence to consider all of those new couples who have been torn apart from each other. There are newly forged couples out there who are going through withdrawal already… And, while I feel desperate for Kayla and James, it’s hardly like James is going into the trenches and putting his body on the line. In wartime couples and families say goodbye for years, some soldiers return, some do not. Some bomb raids kill entire families, children are often sent away for safety, families are ripped apart… it is often years. But sure Kayla I feel your pain, 21 days does feel like a lifetime, and Facetime and WhatsApp just aren’t the same. And besides, I’m sure you can bend the rules and sneak a clandestine kiss at your daily rendezvous in the canned food aisle in Checkers.

So, history, what have you got for us? How about we glance towards the sage advice given by the British government during World War II…

During World War II women were sent to the factories to build weapons, they were told to “dig for victory”, they left their homes in the cities to work the land, women were put to work. So Sarah, you’re being told to stay the fuck at home. You don’t have to “dig for victory” you just have to contribute to some household chores and perhaps look after the kids that you chose to have. But yet, in a dazzling display of irony, some of these women, these pillars of domestic life, the leaders of our households, the very women who purport to keep the home fires burning have been staging a stay-at-home revolt! Many have been asking whether they can go jogging, or if they can walk their hounds, maybe just “pop out” for a bit… No Sarah you have to stay the fuck at home. And frankly if the housewives and stay-at-home mummies are unable to stay home then we have a serious situation on our hands. We may as well just call it a day.

“Careless talk costs lives” sounds a little dramatic right? We’re all smart enough to know who to listen to and who to believe, right? Right? Well, if you look at the fake news behemoth, the behemoth that’s only going to get worse as bored individuals develop conspiracies from the comfort of their basements, you can see how ill-informed citizens can quite literally kill each other. Why just this week a chap died because he decided to take Donald Trump’s advice. And there are a million different rumours circulating about “cures”, “remedies”, “make your own”… and the anti-vaxxers haven’t even weighed in yet. We shouldn’t even have to go through fake news and fact checking in 2020, but it appears some people just aren’t getting the message. And, FYI Beverley, “I’m just sharing this in case” is akin to careless talk… Sort your shit out Beverley!

But, I’m a hypocrite. Here I am bemoaning Beverley, Sarah, Kayla, James… and there I was yesterday, Jaqui Hiltermann, queuing at 8:47am to get into the goddam bottle store. And sure, I wouldn’t say that I stockpiled, but I certainly bought more than my weekly allowance as set out by medical professionals. In fact, my mother actually phoned me to make sure that I woke up in time to go and buy alcohol; she’s got my back! ‘Jaqui she said, everyone has their price…’ Everyone has their price.

And the truth is I have a very limited supply of food in my house, just ask Ron Moss. I haven’t stockpiled anything (please no applause), and I am going to have to buy food at some point… But do you know what? I won’t need a ration book, I won’t need to read recipes on “how to make a turnip taste fucking delicious”, I will literally be able to go to Woolworths and buy avos if I want to. People in wartime had to eat horse meat and cabbage, and drink tea… no alcohol. Not even a funky looking bottle of Limoncello or Ouzo from that European holiday you went on a decade ago. I could be skirting on sunny optimism here folks, but I think we’ll all be OK. But do you know who may not be OK, the millions of people in South Africa who are living in abject poverty. The thing with rationing is that it’s democratic, everyone gets the same food and supplies. So, when we all start to bleat about the inconvenience of grocery stores not having our favourite line items, maybe we should all take a breath. From where I’m sitting, suburban lockdown is pretty fucking comfortable.

So, as we all hunker down in our manicured bunkers for the next 21 days, possibly longer, equipped with our patriotic pajamas and “pants optional” mindsets, let’s just be grateful. And if you can’t do that, realise it could be a whole lot fucking worse… We could be enduring loadshedding at the same time. Eskom, you’re up!