My approach to dealing with Coronavirus has been two-fold: first, to be short-tempered with the long-suffering husband; and second, to clean with a vengeance.
Although the long-suffering one once worked in a department of microbiology, he fails to apply the principals he learned in the lab to the kitchen. He leaves the top off the milk, reheats the chicken for the third time, and sees what we are eating today as an exercise in recycling items approaching their sell-by date rather than nutrition – it’s a miracle we’ve survived this far. So, perhaps it was not the best idea to send him out shopping. His interpretation of the CDC guideline to gather a 30-day supply of essentials was, in keeping with microbiological training on sterile technique, that 70% alcohol kills everything.
While all Manhattanites are washing their hands like Lady Macbeth I should begin by saying that in normal times I am certainly not at all a clean freak. I have no problem riding the wave(s) of dog hair and general detritus blowing around my living room. But in times of stress, like a cat that licks its paws when it fails to catch the mouse, I focus on the filth with zeal in a desire to do something, anything to attack an impenetrable problem. My children cottoned on to this behavior pattern long ago and used to ask: “Mummy, the bathroom is very clean today, are you writing a grant?” The dogs are also thoroughly acquainted with the routine. At first, they get excited and prance around with a look that says – “Yes, she’s got out the vacuum cleaner and is finally going to hoover out our beds”. But as the process continues they become apprehensive and pace about in fear of “Does this mean we have to get a bath too?”
Of course, all this is because Manhattan is a mess. This week, in the interest of social distancing, we had to let our faithful dog walkers go. I spent long days in the vivarium fathoming which mice might be young enough to revive our colony when all this is over. I have a thick chest from breathing in the Lysol fumes abounding in the hospital from the continual cleaning of the door handles and light switches.
In the days when the QE2 and Queen Mary cruise ships used to pass down the Hudson, it was remarkable to see how many blocks of Manhattan they spanned. It was often said that they were the equivalent of the Empire State building turned on its side. Now we know the full extent of what the reverse of that statement means. Our apt block has 800 units with 6 elevators serving 57 floors. Even with the new rules as of this Friday, limiting occupancy to four people, these are cramped – there is no way to practice social distancing, and you can’t hold your breath for 53 floors - I’ve tried. Like the people on the Titanic, the building’s management has been in denial and their response came too late. They gave the doormen cotton gloves to be laundered until I wrote a stern letter to the board – they finally got disposable gloves 3 days ago. The family-run dry-cleaners in the basement, who, also take in the parcels, closed on Friday in fear for their own safety. With no plan from management for the consequences, many people congregated in the lobby, gregariously chatting while waiting for their food deliveries. Now, a pallor of panic hangs over New York of the kind I have not seen since 9/11. High-rise buildings are, in essence, cruise ships tipped on their end. The only questions that remain are how fast will we go down and who gets the lifeboats.
