The difference between a cellphone shop in Germany vs one in South Africa is the fucking temperature. If you want the experience of buying anything cellphone-related while on the surface of the sun, then Germany is your place. The okes who worked there were as useless as you’d get in the South African equivalent. We arrived at the shop, and explained that we were tourists and needed a SIM card for tourists, and we were told to sit down. While we waited we couldn’t help but notice, through the veil of sweating eyeballs, that like South African cellphone shop attendants they seem to spend a lot of time huddled and chatting with fashion haircuts and lanyards and iPads and not a lot of time helping out. Eventually, someone helped us and after a long explanation explained we’d need a resident to come and sign for us. We asked if this was the only option and he said yes. 

I didn’t believe him so we searched for the Vodafone shop and were absolutely jazzed to see that it was as packed as the Vodacom shop at Liberty Mall at month end. But hotter. Obviously. We realised that communication was not worth this, and getting lost again in a shithole was preferable to spending a second longer in the moshpit of connectivity. At this point, I needed the toilet so I had to do the usual pay 1 Euro for the loo. However, this was a Euro well and truly spent because I was greeted by a self-cleaning, self-wiping toilet. The seat spins around while the mechanism disinfects and wipes the seat. This is literally the type of shit that I go bos for. If I could give my Blessedies one gift from Europe it would be this. We’d have to have it as some sort of timeshare though. 

In a last-ditch attempt, we asked a random internet shop to help us with our SIM card problem and he told us we needed to go to Ortel just over there… He points. It took less than five minutes to be helped by a very friendly guy from Pakistan who espoused the virtues of Hansie Cronje while we waited.

When I look back on this trip, one of the things I’ll get misty-eyed about is the train trip from Hannover to Czechia. The first leg was pretty standard, except I got on my first-ever double-decker train and I nearly pooed with excitement. Despite all the train changes we managed a lot better and also scheduled a two-hour stop in Bad Schandau. I like to think Bad Schandau is an MMA fighter. But actually, Bad Schandau is one of the most glorious places on earth and everyone should go there immediately. The scenery is absolutely insane and the River Elba seems to be bookended by sandstone and forest.

We knew when we’d got to Czechia because the scenery rapidly changed and our last train was straight out of My First Siberian Picture Book of Communism. The doors were manual and one passenger had to ask Jono to help her get off the train because she couldn’t manage to open the door herself. 

In Prague, we were greeted by one of many really grumpy Uber/Bolt drivers. Not only are they grumpy but the driving is downright terrifying. The zeitgeist around driving seems to be “go like the fucking clappers and then slam on brakes”. Repeat until destination. The trouble is that zebra crossings are HIGHLY observed and there are very few pedestrian traffic lights… You cross and drivers will stop. However, the first time you try this it’s harrowing because the cars do about 60km per hour before slamming on brakes to allow you to gently amble across.

Our hostel, read hostile, was straight from the chapter “Hostiletality for Beginners,” in The Compendium of Eastern European Communism.  Despite the numerous “artworks” peddling toxic positivity none of it seemed to rub off on the staff. The hostel was clean but gave off the distinct whiff of those halcyon days when you could choose between beige or oatmeal.

Prague is known for its excellent beer. However, a lot of restaurants and bars in Prague serve Pilsner Urquell only. I don’t know why. We found some delicious beers including Kozel and Bernard. When it comes to service, in most countries it’s customary to say, “Cheque please!” I’d like to establish a new tradition in Prague, “Czech please!” Service is not fast, nor is it excellent or even good. What is excellent is the Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we nicknamed Kentucky Fried Czech-en. You might think it’s weird to go for KFC over local cuisine but I’m too old to be force-fed an assortment of beige food just so that I can have an authentic experience.

Old Town is a magical land filled with wonder and delight at every turn. There are bunches of jewellery shops, sweet shops, ice-cream shops, and places promising to have the best Trdelniks. I find jewellery shops in tourist areas really weird. Who can afford to buy jewellery when they travel? How much jewellery do you need? Is this just aimed at men keeping multiple women happy? Every country has some special stone or piece of glass or some sparkly shit that they claim is unique… Why are people duped by this? However, the sweet shops were like the kid version of the jewellery shops. I’m not even a sweet person (in all the ways) but I nearly bought my weight in sweets because environment influences behaviour. When I’m presented with a gajillion barrels filled with a gajillion sweets and then the sweet shop is themed as a mine with a mine shaft and wagons and shit I’m all in. I don’t know how those places make money though because you’d have to sell a lot of sweets to pay for the cost of the mise-en-scene they’ve got going.

Our British waiter at our favourite restaurant close to our hostel explained that the reason the sweet shops are there is because they’re a front for drugs and money laundering. I don’t even care if this is true or not. Good stories are more important than the truth (unless you’re a journalist). 

For anyone who cares, and you should, the best Trdelnik is from TRDLO 13 Karlova. Trdelniks are like those spiralled potatoes on a stick that you used to get at the Royal Show. Everyone is eating them so they’re a walking advert. You can’t help but want one, and the smell is intoxicating. However, unlike the potato on a stick, which is utter crap, these are glorious. One of our favourite games was to watch people try and finish them and then commentate on how they were doing and who was likely to win. In one memorable race, a redhead and brunette were tackling their carboloaded Goliaths. The redhead got off to an excellent start and the brunette looked like she was done before she’d even reached bite four of the cone. However, she got a blast of second wind and was absolutely smashing through rings and ice cream in a sugar rush frenzy. She had about three rings to go when the redhead came back with all the excitement of 1990s Jaqui at a cake sale and the race was over. Once they’d finished you could just see the regret. Folks, this is a sharing food. Trust me. 

Another thing you might want to share is a Czech meal. My one attempt at sampling the goulash was the worst I’ve eaten. If you want goulash, Google a recipe and cook it yourself. 

In a strange twist of fate, we got one friendly Bolt/Uber driver. He was one of those who would be rated as 10 on the over-friendly scale if there was a form involved. Sadly, there was no form, but like I say (thanks Mands), “You either have a good time or a good story.” This driver was friendly so we immediately said, “You’re not Czech are you?” No, he’s Ukrainian. Thus followed the usual flow of how these conversations go. He told us about the fact that many of his friends have died, his town is all but destroyed, etc. His disposition was matter-of-fact and lively and he did a lot of punctuating with laughter to make us feel awkwardly at ease. Things took quite a turn though when a woman sent him a voicenote and he put it on speaker. We didn’t take much notice of the voicenote because it was in another language and at that point a tram came dangerously close to hitting us and he said, “Oh shit, I forget about the trams!” Bowels safely reinstalled to where they were supposed to be, we continued careering towards our destination.

That’s when he said, “My girlfriend keeps fucking me in the head!”

I made a noise to indicate my interest that he should continue along this story path. Apparently, the voicenote was from his ex-girlfriend, who seems a lot to me like she’s still his girlfriend. The “sitch” is that she wants more money and he doesn’t buy her the right stuff. Hence why she keeps phoning him and leaving voicenotes.

I asked if she was Czech, thinking from the disposition of those we’d met in the service industry, this would compute.

“No,” he says, “she’s Russian.”

Insert long pause. 

“Russian?!” Jono and I exclaim in unison. 

Not one beat skipped… “Yes, every day I get to fuck a Russian!” And then he emitted the type of belly laugh I’ve only seen from arch-villains in really offbeat foreign films.

I was in bits. But then he ruined it with a sigh and… “What can you do, women…?!”

On his imaginary rating form, he lost a shitload of points for that one. But I was in too good a mood to tell him off and give him a lecture on feminism.

And speaking of telling off. We found this spectacular outdoor space that’s this deck/platform and there’s a mobile bar and really great buskers. We saw two superb buskers and it was one of the golden travel moments where you keep pinching yourself and wondering if you’re actually alive.

You’ll know that Jono and I believe in paying for art and therefore we tipped the buskers a healthy amount. We were the only ones to do so and so Jono took it upon himself to introduce the other patrons to the phenomenon known as “not being a dick and paying musicians.” He started his mission on a table with some of Czechia’s finest teenagers. I’ve seen some faces I wouldn’t want to tangle with, but these five were something else. I watched the whole thing go down and let’s just say Jono was schooled by some of the most expert eye-rolling and bitch-face I’ve ever seen. They should become soap opera villains. Not to be deterred, the good-natured Jono persevered and once again was not thanked for his trouble. When we left a lot of people whispered and made faces and I’m glad we didn’t stay til dark because neither Jono nor I are very good at violence.

As we walked past the scary teenagers I did mutter, “You guys better Czech yourselves before you wreck yourselves.” That made me feel a lot better. Passive aggression doesn’t win in Czechia… But it soothes some of the wounds. 

I Googled “Are people in Czechia Friendly” and “Is Czech service bad” just to do my due diligence, and it was a mixed bag. Our experience was that we met some amazingly friendly Czechs but that was not the overarching experience. In general, the service was pretty slow and a lot of the places seemed to be understaffed. I don’t really care though… When I’m on holiday I don’t mind waiting and I’m not going to moan. BUT I am going to write about it. What you should know is that the Czech currency will fox you and we found ourselves giving someone over R200 in tip because we had a bunch of not-very-fancy looking coins that turned out to be quite fancy. 

Next Time: Are you ready for some of the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? Jono and I discovered one of the greatest street artists (possibly the greatest) was having an exhibition and we went to Czech it out. You’ll see pictures galore and who knows, I might Czech in with some more puns. 

It was only a matter of time before I’d have to dust off my “Bullshit Police Officer” uniform and rejoin the forces.

I imagine I’m in one of those Hollywood cop movies… You know the type that start with the sultry music and the husky voiceover…?

I’m standing in the kitchen, wearing my shitty stretched out “The Doctor Will See You Now” t-shirt, and a pair of boxer shorts. My hair is casually piled on my head, I’m obviously wearing makeup because I woke up like that, and there’s not an ounce of cellulite on my legs. Fuck how did my legs get so toned?! But, because this is a Hollywood movie and they strive for accuracy, I look a bit fucked up and worse for wear. Maybe I’m wearing glasses to help disguise the fact that underneath all this, I’m a fucking smoke-show. Maybe I have spilt coffee on my t-shirt even though I am a “tea person”. Maybe my bunny slippers are distracting from the fact that my cheekbones could cut through glass, and that under this t-shirt is a stomach that constitutes months with “Chad Powers- PT to the stars”. You just wait for the inspirational montage to some nineties monster hit, where I transform into something fucking gorgeous. And sure, I’ll have to do a bit of jogging and a few push-ups… I’ll have to visit Carlos at the salon, and obviously I’ll need a whole new wardrobe. But mark my words, it’ll take almost no time before my soon-to-be partner, that cocky guy with the dreamy eyes and rock hard ass, the one who said he would never bang me, is trying to get into my pants. Anyway, I’m skipping a few steps… back to the kitchen…

So I’m standing there looking Hollywood ugly and eating Woolies Luxury Muesli (on special save R10 Now R55.99!) out of the packet like a fucking animal. I go over to the fridge and I smell the milk, it’s obviously past it’s prime because this cues the “breakfast beer bit” that the director is real excited about. I snarl at the milk and casually chuck it in the bin because I have co-ords now. I then look in the fridge, confidently grab a beer and open it, I take a swig as I reach for a bowl, throw in some muesli, and douse it in beer. “Wow”, think the audience. “This chick is badass”. I begin eating my beer muesli with my no-fuck’s to give vibe. Men everywhere swoon. The You magazine commits to making me the next issue’s poster “spread”.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s my old captain, and he’s in a Hazmat suit. Obviously. “Jaqui” he says, “We need you”.

“Absolutely not Captain, I gave that all up years ago because of that incident… you’re on your own…”

“Jaqui, it’s the coronavirus, it’s… it’s out of control… Trust me I didn’t want to come here… after… after everything that… …. But please…”

“I’m sorry Captain, those days are behind me…”

The captain leaves… I abandon my cereal… slopping some of it on the counter to signal my mood. I’m pacing, I shoot a glance at the hard tack… I walk to the closet (because I’m a hybrid American and we all know only Americans can save us now) and there it is… my old uniform… There’s a series of flashbacks where I’m sitting in front of a computer typing furiously… The passage of time is signalled by the changing and modernising of my computer… my face obviously stays the same because in Hollywood, women don’t age. No wonder Meghan decided to move back.

I pick up my phone and dial.

“Captain it’s me… I’ll do it…”

And then I just hang up because no one in Hollywood says “goodbye” because airtime is fucking expensive there.

So here I am back on the forces. I’m ready to start policing the bullshit that’s running absolutely fucking rampant in this cesspool of a town. The underbelly is dark and terrifying, and it’s going to take all of my muscle not to go back to those dark times… Not to go back to that incident… that time when…

So listen up okes! Coronavirus is not a Chinese Bio-weapon, Idris Elba was not paid to say he was Covid-19 positive, this isn’t a Big Pharma ploy, Bill Gates is not the anti-Christ despite Internet Explorer, It’s not the fucking bat soup (but chef recommends ordering the cream of tomato to be safe), and it’s not the fucking 5G either. Listen up! Your shitty non-peer-reviewed, non-researched, nonsense articles are not fucking interesting… they’re stupid. It’s only Day Eight guys and already I’m reading that some people think fucking cellphone towers are spreading a global pandemic. Is this the Twilight Zone? Am I in the wrong movie? Stupid is not sexy.

You’re just fucking lucky Jaqui Hiltermann is back on the job.  

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!

And it’s nice to know that my increasing waistline and fatty liver aren’t all in vain. I see all of the valiant efforts that so many others are doing to show this virus who’s boss. And I’m astonished. And boy-oh-boy does it galvanise me to settle in for another episode of Money Heist, and stare blankly at my phone for the next 17 hours.

I mean take Sven and Laura for example. Sven recently posted Instagram pics of their self-isolation, and I realized that I might need to ramp up my efforts. Sven and Laura are taking their self-isolation so seriously that they flew across country to a couple’s retreat on a game farm. And to really drum the message home Sven captioned the snap, “this is how to self-isolate… bliss” with the hashtags #Covid2020 #CoronaVirus #SelfIsolation #DoingOurBit #FlattenTheCurve. And judging from the comments of “guyz I’m sooooo jealous”, others wish that they could be more like this power couple. Guys you’re doing great. Keep it up!

And then there’s Gavin and Gemma. Gemma takes mental health very seriously. So in a bid to spread cheer amongst her besties, she and Gavin have rented a lovely AirBnb to share with 4 other couples for a long weekend. Gemma’s WhatsApp group, “Hey MaCoronas!” really got the proverbial chuckles going, and hell did Clive not throw some real zingers into the meme trough?! That Clive really knows how to hunt down memes- you should see the one about the Chinese guy and the bat- it’s hilarious! Anyway, despite the fact that Gavin is a pharmacist, and he’s around sick people all day, he’s assured the group that there’s nothing to worry about in terms of his Covid status. And when Gavin says, “don’t worry guys”, everyone believes him, because men with such great hair and chiseled features don’t lie. Kate is concerned though because two of her work colleagues have just come back from Europe and they’re awaiting test results. Luckily Kate’s dissuaded from leaving the group because Gavin assures her that she’s A-OK, and Gemma chimes in that she simply can’t live without Kate’s signature potato bake, and the weekend won’t be the same without her. That’s settled then, Kate and her potato bake are in! As texts about who’s bringing the brie rain down upon the group, Gemma knows she’s done a good thing, and her heart swells with pride. Friends should stick together in hard times, and there is no way that any of her friends have Corona anyway.

And elsewhere, Jasmine is using her mommy powers to impact on her community. Jasmine’s read up on herd immunity, so she’s started a Facebook Group called “Herd it through the Grapevine”. Jasmine has such a way with words. Jasmine’s inviting local area moms to host “Corona Parties”, reminiscent of Chicken Pox parties, and she’s recommended some great close contact games to add fun to the fiesta. Jasmine suggests pass the parcel because she’s read that the virus can live on paper for up to a week. Other fun games and activities include musical chairs, duck duck goose, bobbing for apples, and pin the respirator on the Corona patient. And sure, not everyone is on board with Jasmine’s brilliance, but there is always one particular group who try to take the wind out of your sails. But do you know what Jasmine says to those people? “Let’s just agree to disagree…” Oooo mic drop Jasmine. You fucking nailed it!

Finally, there’s Ben and Sharon who have decided that they really need a break from it all. It’s been a helluva year for Sharon because she finally quit her job in order to focus on her online shop, and what’s more, she’s just had to let their domestic worker go because things are a bit tight at the moment. Sharon feels desperate for their darling Lydia and she just can’t bear to think about it anymore. Sharon’s done everything that she can for Lydia by imploring her Facebook networks to help out, but it’s time that she starts thinking about herself for a change. That’s why they’re off to Zanzibar for a well needed break. I applaud Ben and Sharon for not letting a global pandemic that killed nearly 800 people in one day affect their plans to have a nice holiday. They really can offer us all a lesson on Stoic Pragmatism.        

It really is so nice to know that we’re all in this together and that each and every one of us are really doing everything that we can to flatten the curve. We’ve got this guys! And just FYI, if anyone needs any extra toilet paper, I’ve got a whole garage full. Because you never know when a member of the community will need me to generously donate an extra roll!

I’m a fly by the seat of my pantalone’s kind of a betty so I was fucking stoked when my trip to Hilton coincided with the breaking news story that the first confirmed case of Covid-19 was in my “home” town. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing the virus on anyone (enemies excluded), but I’m a dirty ho-bag for a good story, and this is a helluva story. The prodigal daughter was coming home- the red carpet was rolled out- my father had found hand sanitiser and for once he wasn’t moaning about the toilet paper s(h)ituation. My dad has a thing about toilet paper… as a family we “go through far too much of the stuff”. I had hand sanitiser, toilet paper, and I was itching to get into the hub of Hilton Village to check out the vibe.

I’m not sure what I expected to be honest. Actually, that’s a lie. I expected a Hollywood Blockbuster. I wanted the scene from ET where the government agents are all hazmat-suited and booted and the danger zones are all tented in a massive quarantine bubble. Where was my quarantine bubble? And where was the tumbleweed rolling down the streets. Where was the Ennio Morricone soundtrack? It was in my head.

Despite this, I’m not the type of pantalone wearing lunatic to be deterred from telling a good story. ‘Persistence’, I remember, is something I tell my students. And, if all else fails there’s my go-to exaggeration. There’s a fucking story here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the lack of hazmat suits and face masks influence this narrative.

The Quarry Shopping Centre is, on any given day, a fucking nightmare. To put you in the picture, there’s one way in, and one way out. Parking is so valuable that the “Moms and Tots’” bays are often invaded by non-moms and then the Internet goes fucking crazy and pitchforks are sharpened. One day someone will lose their shit completely and the Mombies will revolt! Cries of “the Mombies are revolting!” will rain down on the village. But not today. Where are the Mombies?

I mean there are moms here. They’re just not the ones who wear the uniform- the leggings/skinny jeans, white blouse/t-shirt, scarf that goes “pop”, gilet if it’s a bit nippy, and cute little canvas takkies (usually Superga). The out-and-about-moms, the Normoms, are just going about their day, and I’m waiting for them to pull out face masks from their handbags to add a litter glitter to my story. Where are all the face masks? They’re not in the pharmacies I’ll tell you that for free. My pharmacist friends tell me that they were the first casualty of the Coronavirus. Maybe Spar will have some answers?

Spar is busy. I mean sure it’s not filled to the brim with those damn pensioners who insist on smashing into the back of your ankles with a trolley wheel, but it’s certainly vibey. Ronan Keating is playing in the background so I’m reassured that the winds of change haven’t moved in to destroy everything sacred about village life. People aren’t stockpiling canned food. There’s a massive pallet of antibacterial soap. Expectant. There is fuck all hand sanitiser. Hilton residents will have to “make do” with soap.

The lack of Mombies, hand sanitiser, and face masks are the only clues that things are a bit rough in the village. I decide that I deserve a glass of wine. I need to think.

My head isn’t as sharp as I’d like it to be after a night of ‘Nana always used to say the best thing for germs is whisky’. Nonetheless I decide to accompany my dad on his errands because I need one more crack at this story. We go to the pharmacy that services the “Garlington side” of Hilton- my dad says he’s never seen it so empty on a Saturday morning. It’s eerie. Visions of tumbleweed. Ennio don’t tell the orchestra to pack up just yet.

It’s a Saturday morning and it’s the quietest I’ve ever seen Hilton. We hit the bottle store; a few parents seem to be self-medicating as usual, ‘virus or no virus I need my wine Wayne!’. Dave is clearly having a braai (for one?). Edwin is clutching a bottle of Old Brown and a bottle of Gordon’s. There’s that fucking Ronan Keating again. ‘There’s no story here’, I tell my father. ‘Let’s go! Hilton is so weird!’

I’m feeling disappointed. Where is all the hyperbole I’ve read online? Where are those pesky Whatsappers and their vitriol and histrionics? And where the fuck are those damn Mombies? I want my apocalypse dammit. And then it happens… as we drive past Grace College we see a bonanza. The Jesus Makro, as I like to call it, or Hilton Christian Fellowship, as the attendees call it, is fucking packed to capacity. The signage says it’s some kind of leadership thing but I’m almost sure they’re discussing the Coronavirus with Jesus in there. Is that a craft beer van? In any event it’s telling that the Jesus Makro is clearly protected by some invisible, almost 100% effective antiviral agent. Okes have flocked there. Fortuner by Fortuner.

As for the Mombies and their spawn? I eventually find out that they’re in “self-quarantine”- probably watching Gwyneth Paltrow’s GOOP Lab on Netflix while chugging down glasses of Haute Cabriere Chardonnay Pinot Noir. After all they must be pooped out; they’ve had an exhausting week of bidding over hand sanitiser at the local pharmacies, auctioning off face masks, and Googling Coronavirus. My brother actually said it best (sorry Ronan Keating), ‘Jaqs, no virus spreads as fast as gossip’. Mass outbreak of the Hyperbole Virus, the only cure is to self-quarantine yourself.