This morning I had my “Truman Burbank moment” as I was brushing my teeth. I looked in the mirror and I realised that it’s just me… I am at the centre of my increasingly small universe. I am alone in my house and despite brief moments during the day where I connect with other people, it’s just me. This is my show. As I looked in the mirror I saw myself as the only physical company that I have. It’s just me in here. I quoted a line from the movie…

‘I hearby claim this place Jaqsmania… of the Hiltermann galaxy.’

In the moment where I acknowledged my shrinking world, I realised that as humans we all think that this is about us as individuals, not as us a collective. I think for people who live alone, this is even more so because there’s no one around us. And, aside from what we see on social media, television, and our limited shopping trips, we really have no fucking clue what’s going on outside our bubbles.

And, because conspiracy theories are trending, because I have an overactive imagination, and because I absolutely adore The Truman Show it got me thinking. What if this is an elaborate plot to trick me into staying at home? What if this is some crazy experiment that some social scientist cooked up? What if I’ve been specially selected as the guinea pig? What if this is a reality show? What if I am Truman Burbank?

And then I started thinking about all the ways that this could be true. Anyone who knows me will know that I only really shop at one specific Woolworths. I only ever go to the Checkers nearby if I need an emergency hangover coke (with my limited booze supply this isn’t fucking likely), cleaning supplies, or random items for a specific recipe. And sure I do grocery shopping elsewhere, but people who know me would know that in a lockdown situation there’s only one place I’d go- plus they’ve “coincidentally” introduced Free Parking as an added bonus. Hence, tracking my movements is pretty simple. On my weekly or bi-weekly shopping days it would be pretty easy to orchestrate a lockdown simulation… And the more I think about it the more I realise how many red traffic lights I sit through. They’re there to stall me. While I’m waiting at the red light, cashiers are putting on masks and the shops are temporarily closing. Hand sanitizer is being spritzed around for added authenticity. People are hiding. It’s the fucking Truman Show.

Social media is easy to infiltrate, as anyone with even the most basic understanding of Cambridge Analytica will tell you. And I’ve just been informed that the SA government is tracking our phones and our cars so basically I’ve been primed to accept that tracking and surveillance is the new normal. I’m not even questioning the ethics of it. I’m just like, “Sure, whatever, in for a penny in for a pound”. So I’m OK with being surveilled and I’m OK with the government snooping up on me… because I’ve been told it’s happening to everyone. “Well OK then, in that case…” Next thing I’ll be giving away my CVV code. It’s 142 by the way.

The bit that concerns me is how did they infiltrate my friends and family? Was this set up as an elaborate April Fools joke? Has any money changed hands? Is this being broadcast as a reality television show? Come to think of it some of my friends are suspiciously quiet… are they conscientious objectors to this charade? And then there are those friends who I haven’t heard from in bloody ages who are suddenly all over me like white on rice. Family members are also really crawling out the proverbial word work… my phone has never been hotter. This is unnerving. I’m beginning to have phone paranoia.

So in response I’m starting to change my behaviour. I am developing ways to be more entertaining and dazzling in case people are actually watching me. I don’t want people to think that I’m fucking boring and uninteresting. To make a start, I’ve upped my “compulsory dance parties” to four times a day and my “grapevine” to Rosemary is a fucking treat. I’m singing a lot. Ron Moss and I make quite the celebrity couple. A lot of my dialogue is now spoken out loud. We talk out loud a lot, and, now that I have an excuse I may abandon silent thoughts forever. I’m thinking of making pizza from scratch because no one has a YouTube video on “spreading almond butter on nice cakes”… Seriously no one wants to watch that shit. I might even start to take part in this fucking baking frenzy that all of you people doing “fake lockdown” are partaking in… You chaps are obviously doing all of these projects to inspire me. After all everyone knows that I’m fucking competitive so if I see a homemade ciabatta you just know I’m going to hop on board. And I won’t use a fucking bread maker either.

Just so you know, I see all of you dangling all of these challenges in my face just hoping I’ll jump on them and become lank interesting to watch… Fun Fact I am not doing the half marathon in my driveway challenge that can go fuck itself. But yes I will try the “Make your own Hunter’s Dry”.

And Cyril… if you’re listening, which you are, please lift the fucking booze ban. Everyone knows that in the Big Brother House shit escalates when you inject some booze. But just know that under no circumstances will I take a shit in the garden… I have my limits.

So I guess there is just one question… “How’s it going to end?”

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.