I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.

I was actually quite proud of the fact that I’d managed to avoid the dreaded Covid. Proud to the point of smug, if I’m honest. Despite the easing and subsequent lifting of restrictions, I still wore a face mask on public transport, still sanitized my hands at every opportunity, still used contactless payments instead of cash. But despite these defences, the pesky virus still managed to infiltrate my previously untainted home.

The precautions I took to stave off the contagious disease were, it seems, in vain. I could take every precaution possible when away from home but if the virus was already making itself comfortable on my sofa, there was only going to be one winner. Little did I know as I fastidiously washed my hands, it was skulking around in the shower tray, lurking in the laundry basket, and plotting its attack as it hid under the shiny new leaves of my favourite potted plant.

I’m pretty certain it had hitched a ride with my husband who, having recently paid his respects to a dearly departed friend, returned home with more than just a heartrending Order of Service. Granted, it could easily have been the train carriage, the hotel room or any number of other sources, but the countless handshakes of condolence and sympathetic hugs that took place at the funeral seemed the most likely explanation for the unwelcome breach.

Needless to say, upon testing positive he was banished to the spare room, after which we moved around the house as though playing a game of chess, each waiting for the other to make their move before taking the next, carefully considered step. We circled the dinner table so many times we became giddy! Invisible lines divided our territory. A single red line divided our test results.

Meal times became a challenge. After leaving his plate outside his cell (sorry, bedroom) I would rap my knuckles on the door before running back to the kitchen as fast as I could. Anything to prevent those invisible but deadly infectious particles chasing me along the hallway. Clearly, I didn’t run fast enough.

I guess I should be thankful. Compared to many, my symptoms were minor. That said, it still felt as though a pack of razor blades had set up camp in my throat, my entire body ached, and everything I ate or drank tasted inexplicably of salt. I also had a smoker’s cough (despite never having smoked in my life) and just when I thought I’d overcome it, it reminded me who was boss by jabbing me with its sinister tentacles, forcing me to endure another day with zero energy and a salty diet.

Thankfully, I missed out on only three social occasions during my self-isolation. With wedding season fast approaching and some of our nearest and dearest due to exchange nuptials, it could have been so much worse. Still, I couldn’t help but feel aggrieved that I’d been forced to miss three eagerly anticipated events, particularly as I’d already endured almost two years of non-existent socialising.

My frustration, however, was short-lived. There’s nothing quite like a bout of illness, no matter how long or short, for prompting a period of reflection. I realised, of course, that I had nothing to complain about. When so many others had lost their lives or their income, my irritating cough was irrelevant. When people had been hospitalised for months, were unable to say a final farewell to their loved ones, or were still dealing with the devastating effects of the pandemic, my own few days of inconvenience paled into insignificance. After all, I was still able to don my frock and fascinator in time to hear the long-awaited declarations of ‘I do’.

Taking time to reflect is something many of us have done since coronavirus reared its ugly head. It upheld that ‘life is too short’ attitude that we often referred to but rarely did anything about. It led people to set up that small business they’d always dreamed of, to write that novel they’d been plotting for years, to book that holiday in Bali, Mauritius or New Zealand. So many life-changing decisions were made.

From my own point of view, I was able to reflect on how lucky I had been to survive the pandemic unscathed. My symptoms were slight and short-lived, my taste buds soon losing their salty tang. My loved ones were all still safe and well and I was able to work from home throughout each lockdown.

I wondered how different things might have been had I not been vaccinated and was grateful to live in a society with access to medicines, food, clean water and housing: the things we all take for granted but which so many are forced to live without.

But it also made me realise that although we no longer have to sit through the depressing daily coronavirus update on the TV, the disease is still spreading itself far and wide. The world may have decided to carry on regardless but this nasty little virus is here to stay. And whilst the obligation to take tests, report a positive result and self-isolate for ten, seven or however many days has been removed, the Covid bug is multiplying at an alarming rate. In fact, just six weeks after my own bout of the dastardly disease, my sister found herself with a bad cough and a positive test. She, too, had a wedding to attend. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t recover in time to enjoy the celebrations. Far from being salty, her Covid aftertaste was very bitter indeed.

At the time of writing, I still have two weddings to look forward to, both of which have been postponed more than once, both of which I would be gutted to miss. Confetti at the ready, I’m doing everything possible to remain free of the Covid curse. Fingers crossed.