THE first time I caught the Covid was in those far distant days of March and April, 2020. This was in the wild-west period before anything like test and trace was up and running, so it might not have been the coronavirus. But the local nurse said it probably was after I’d described my symptoms to her over the phone. It was the loss of taste and smell that seemed to do it.

I was determined though not to settle for anything humdrum like the common throat infection or a mere winter cold. This was a lethal pandemic and I wanted a slice of the perverse glamour. So the Covid it was, and I proceeded to wring it dry of every ounce while adding the odd embellishment here and there as a form of sturm und drang to provide extra drama.

Yet, as the wracking cough refused to subside I began to get a bit edgy. In those first few weeks as the news bulletins turned into a sort of Covid porn, I watched a chilling report about how failure to wash your hands risked infecting another person whose entire respiratory system could rapidly succumb to Covid-19’s predations. And so for three weeks I checked my breathing at regular intervals for signs of anything that couldn’t merely be explained by ingesting 20 Benson & Hedges.

In those days the news reports indicated that hospitalisation was a virtual death sentence. Another good reason for wanting to avoid a Covid ward was that as well as dealing with the pandemic these places were hoaching with so many television crews and documentary-makers competing for next year’s BAFTAs that you were almost certainly going to have a furry microphone shoved up your nose as well as a ventilator tube.

And then it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and I settled down to have a rather decent lockdown compared with the privations many others in more fragile circumstances were enduring. While others turned to the drink I decided to wait until the pubs re-opened and began to live the monastic life (more or less). I had a terror of rapidly descending into a state of jaikiedom if I were to start drinking at home on my own during a lockdown.

Nearly two years and three Astrazenecas later, me and the Covid were re-introduced just last week. At first I wasn’t sure. The lateral flow test was showing a rather faint second line. Perhaps it was just the mini-Covid. Two young female friends who have gained virtual PhDs in the Covid on account of being single mums quickly pointed out that if I’d ever been familiar with a pregnancy test a faint reading didn’t mean you were “a bit pregnant”.

The vaccines dutifully went to work though, and it’s been a relatively benign confinement. As with the first lockdown there were a few Brucie Bonuses. One kind-hearted friend did a proper, grown-up food shop complete with all of the recommended food groups. At a single outing.

Soon, I was hooked on the ice dancing and the giant slalom at the Winter Olympics and discovered, courtesy of ITV Daytime, a few episodes of The Sweeney I hadn’t seen before.

I’d seen all the BBC Breakfast stories accompanied by emoting pianos of tearful family reunions and departures and I looked forward to visits from my grown-up children with their responsible cooked dinners. I should have known better. For they had become Covid-experienced too. They were having none of it.

“Have you made a will yet?” “Who’s getting your old Celtic programmes?” “I hope you’ve been saving up: have you seen the monthly rent in a care home?” It was oddly reassuring though, in a sort of raw Glasgow way.

I make no apologies here for constantly adding the definite article to the pandemic. In Glasgow, saying “The Covid” acts as a sort of security blanket. I also heard this being applied by a Belfast woman during a radio interview. There’s an entire psychology built around this, I think. It’s a process of reduction. In doing this we sort of take ownership of the Covid and make it something familiar and humdrum. It kind of draws the sting from it.

Several years ago, I was in the company of the brilliant Scottish playwright Peter McDougall who told us about an old friend who’d suddenly become difficult to reach. Concerned as to his welfare, McDougall visited his friend’s mum who lived on a West of Scotland housing scheme. “Och he’s doing fine son,” she said. “He’s just got a wee touch of that leukaemia.” I think similar dynamics are at play with “the Covid”.

It’s at this point that I should be expressing my outrage and disgust at Boris Johnson and his Downing Street Covid parties. This has become what the Millennials call a trope. “While we were all sticking to the restrictions and burying people without a wake, Boris and the Tories weren’t giving a friar tuck.”

I know I should be appalled and furious but try as I might I’m just not feeling it. Does that mean I’ve got a touch of the psychopathy? I’ve looked at those pictures of the Downing Street parties and thought: “Thank God I didn’t have to go to one of these.” Only by stretching the concept of ‘party’ to its outer limits could these be deemed to be so. I’ve seen more happy faces at funerals. They all looked like a wedding reception for a jilted bride.

Tories or not, most of them – and especially the Prime Minister – could legitimately describe themselves as key workers. Unless you think that trying to get ahead of a lethal contagion isn’t a crucial undertaking. I’m inclined to cut them a bit of slack here. I mean it’s not as if they were snorting coke and ordering strippers.

There will be many other villainies for which Mr Johnson and his arrogant retinue will be responsible. They will be far more iniquitous than their sad little laptop gatherings. I’d rather save my outrage for all those communities who will be forced to bear an unfair burden as we move towards the post-Covid era.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.