Covid finally got me and, trust me, we all still need to keep testing for this awful disease – Alastair Stewart

Covid has always been “It”. I have lost track of how many variations there have been. Indeed, I always assumed I must have had “It”.

There is something to be said for blind luck and a measure of determination not to get something we all know to be fatal in its worst form. I am particularly proud that two years' worth of weekends were spent wiping down Tesco deliveries for my Grandmother.

I spared no effort chastising any repairman, delivery men, or carers who tried to enter her house unmasked with zero regards for her welfare. “Covering your mouth but not your nose is not masking up” – a sentence I hope never to utter again.

The Covid Curse might well describe friendships that could not survive the demands of the virus.

There were those for whom restrictions were a force to be usurped: group gatherings, pub closure times – something to be cheated. While reluctantly accepting the legislative prohibitions of the time, others took their frustration out on friends they perceived to be sticking too closely to the rules.

This is where friendships broke down. Someone I no longer speak to was organising a stag do for a mutual friend in 2020. There was a group Whatsapp at the time. It quickly became a cesspit for passive-aggressiveness.

What followed was disappointing. His general rage at Covid manifested as frustration against attendees coordinating whether they met the maximum group numbers or if they could gather inside and whether Airbnbs were a cheat. Others just awkwardly sighed when some would come for some activities but restricted the number of hours they could stay.

The whole thing was ugly, but it was a crucible for who could and could not survive friendships beyond sporadic drinking sessions. Of course, it was unfortunate that a stag – and a plethora of other events – could not go ahead with the same richness, fun and spectacle as they might have done.

But if you cannot understand your own friends' health concerns and the concerns for their family, frankly, damn their impudence and move on. Or, as The West Wing's Mrs Landingham put it, “well, God Jed, I don't even wanna know you”.

With this in mind, one fateful Saturday morning, I was testing before seeing my Grandmother for her 90th birthday. Cup of coffee, sunny day outside, and there it was: a half-faded line on the little plastic stick of holiday-crushing doom.

Naturally, my attendance at Granny's birthday party was off, as was a scheduled holiday flight on Tuesday. On Sunday, any hope of rallying and powering through was quickly taken away.

I had developed a head cold and a cough overnight, and yesterday's dull headache transformed into a migraine. By the evening, I could scarcely keep my eyes open.

I am still slightly perplexed as to where I got "It". The only unusual change to my routine was a three-hour dental surgery two weeks before. Said wound became infected, and I developed a cough and what felt like the flu, but it passed. My dentist suggested I had cold symptoms.

In between, there were various degrees of stomach bugs. By the time I tested positive, I think I had either had some version of Covid but repeatedly tested negative, or my immune system was such a disaster it was open season.

The following ten days from that initial Saturday were an ugly affair. What I thought would be a relatively easy lock-in gradually transformed into cancelled annual leave and then sick leave. I never knew you could eventually get sick of repeats of Star Trek: The Next Generation (forgive me, Captain Picard, forgive me). I was not on my deathbed but felt like I was on my death couch.

By Thursday, the cough had transformed into a dry hacking. I had a slight temperature, but it did not last. The worst of it was the much-quoted "fatigue". I woke up once at 3am, with the pages of "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" stuck to my face. I had started reading at 2pm the day before. I was counting sheep, indeed.

Only when I masked up to take the bins out (for my sanity) did I seriously wonder if I would make it up to the top of my stairwell due to the breathlessness.

On Friday, I yielded, and I called my doctor's surgery and spoke to a nurse practitioner. Symptoms entirely par for the course, but bad. If the breathlessness continued, I was to give them a ring back.

Beyond keeping an eye on work emails, nothing was to be done. My mind was there, and I was annoyed, particularly at borderline narcoleptic bouts of tiredness at inopportune moments. It was an ugly kind of sickness, and dry is the word that springs to mind. There was no sweet reprieve of being tired and slipping into a proverbial warm bath and sleeping it off as you can do with a bad cold.

If you are reading this and not testing, please do. Several weeks and two negative tests later, I am happy to be writing this from a table in Naples. And either the city or my battered lungs have left me breathless. But, to quote the General in Withnail and I, “no man's put me down yet”.