Day 8 - The Slow Crawl of Time

Sunday began like all the others: awake at 7:30 AM, breakfast soon after. Once again, a banana made its regular guest appearance - what a way to start the day. After eating quickly and rejecting the banana, I retreated to bed. It had helped pass the time yesterday, so I decided to try it again.

At 9:30 AM, an official Covid test arrived, delivered by two people dressed head-to-toe in medical gear, the kind of protection you’d expect in a disaster film rather than a Heathrow hotel. They reappeared at 11:00 AM to collect it, the whole process brisk and clinical. This was the final step in the chain that would eventually lead to release.

I had little real concern - every self-test I’d done so far had been negative - but a small, nagging doubt refused to disappear. The hotel’s chaotic organisation hardly inspired confidence. What if my result was misplaced or confused with someone else’s? What if a careless member of staff had contaminated the endless parade of food bags left at my door? It was unlikely, but in this place, nothing felt impossible.

To distract myself from that nagging anxiety, I tried to settle into some work, but the hotel had other plans. The internet connection - fragile at the best of times - was utterly unusable today. Pages stalled, emails refused to send, and even the simplest task felt impossible. I gave up after a few futile attempts, resigned to hoping it would somehow recover by tomorrow, when I would actually need it.

I stayed in bed until the predictable midday food arrived: another tepid, overly sweet soup paired with a mushy chicken salad sandwich.

And with it came the weekly food form for me to complete a third time.

In theory, it marked the passing of a week - a small milestone. But with the hotel’s chaotic sense of timing, there was no guarantee it had even arrived on the right day. It was progress of sorts but progress I couldn’t fully trust.

With all my Covid tests still negative, I was tempted to rebel and fill out only the final three days, instead of another full week. In the end, paranoia won. Anything was possible in this place, so I compromised: completing the form for one day beyond my scheduled release. A quiet, paper-based protest - my final act of rebellion, or so I hoped.

Afterward, I showered, shaved, and inevitably ended up back on the bed, still avoiding the desk chair. Unfortunately, my extended “weekend in bed” hours came at a cost: my back went into spasm, as though even my body had decided to protest the monotony.

I experimented with a handful of awkward lying positions, each offering brief relief but none that could be described as remotely dignified. To balance things out, I added a few slow laps of the room and some half-hearted stretches - more symbolic than effective, but enough to convince myself I was doing something about it.

The afternoon stretched on endlessly, each minute dragging into the next. I flicked aimlessly through channels of mindless TV, none of it engaging enough to hold my attention for more than a few minutes. What did help was keeping up a steady stream of messages with Laura, talking about anything and everything. It hardly mattered what the topic was - the weather, memories of Bogotá, idle observations - because in that vacuum of company, even the most trivial conversation felt essential. It was proof that connection, however small, mattered more than content.

What struck me most was how much I had relied on work, in the last week, to make the days move along. Colleagues, meetings, even the minor irritations of the office - all the things I usually roll my eyes at - suddenly felt like luxuries. Who knew I would one day long for the melodic ring of a Microsoft Teams call?

And as I paced the room, racking up a few more tiger-steps, I found myself thinking back to that first breakfast with no cutlery. At least my teaspoon and I had survived the week together - small mercies in a world where even tepid soup could be a threat. I also kept reminding myself that this was the last Sunday in quarantine. The last Sunday!

Dinner was pasta Bolognese with a small bag of cheese, and rice pudding, which arrived just after 6:00 PM.

The evening was spent watching TV, and I fell asleep just after midnight.

However, the usual background hum of the hotel at night was suddenly shattered by a commotion down the corridor. The police had arrived, raiding a room. Shouts, footsteps, and the thud of doors echoed through the hallway, adding yet another layer of surrealism to an already confined existence.

I felt a flicker of sympathy for the police, operating in such a difficult and potentially contagious environment. For the hotel staff, though, it was harder to muster the same generosity. And as for the ever-present corridor guard, I was positive that at least this time, he looked up from his phone - or even, heaven forbid, got up from his chair.

After what seemed like half an hour of commotion, the noise subsided, and the corridor sank back into its usual monotony. I eventually drifted off to sleep, oddly grateful for the brief burst of drama that had broken the silence but annoyed that tomorrow is a workday!