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’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.