A bit of onion in my pocket: Lorenzo Peterson's pandemic journal

Originally from Ontario, Lorenzo Peterson is a high school drama teacher living in St. John's.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. This isn't going to be so bad. I've got all the supplies Barbara and I need for a protracted hunkering down in the Georgestown palais. Might finally start writing that novel, check out The Wire, see what all the fuss is about.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Is it too early for a drink? Another java? That would be my fourth, I'll be up all night and the coffee beans have to last another five days. You would imagine I'd know what I was making for supper having been thinking about little else since waking. Did I eat that entire bag of chips? Barbara must have been eating them too. Those Covered Bridge chips are good. Got to put that on the grocery list, "Covered Bridge Chips."

Saturday 4:16 p.m. I read somewhere that the hardest part of writing a novel is getting started. Confirmed. Burning through The Wire, wow what a show. We will have finished Season 4 tonight. Perhaps should have rationed it out rather than binge watching 17 straight hours. Do I have a sore throat? Is this it? Going to start keeping a slice of onion in my pocket at all times so I can check if I have suddenly lost my sense of smell.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Mercy, the stats on COVID-19 are a fright. I did some admittedly amateur modeling in my head last night, trying to put myself to sleep after getting freaked out by that White House briefing. Calculated that with the rate of infection, the population of Newfoundland, the places I'd been over the last couple of weeks, that regrettable night on George Street and the cat drinking out of the water glass on my night table there was a 143 per cent chance I had already contracted the virus and died. Eventually I remembered how bad I am with numbers and realized I wasn't dead but lying in my bed, alive and all too awake. I didn't get back to sleep until I could see the sun behind the curtains. Too tired for any sensible work on the novella today.

An itchy nose at the supermarket

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Better planning required for my once-a-week trip to the grocery store. Tonight's menu is Mexican Fish Stick and Rice Krispiecasserole. Barbara blames me for panicking over getting an itchy nose at the supermarket and having to leave before acquiring everything on the list. She became quite cross upon discovering I forgot to buy yeast. She has been baking bread twice daily. Headache, maybe. Is this it? I smell the onion, all good.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Barbara says she must increase the social distance between us and takes to her room. The house is at once a lonely and crowded place. I have managed to become extremely busy doing nothing at all so haven't the time to accomplish many of the goals I set for myself during lockdown. Emotional cost of all this becoming evident. The casserole wasn't that bad. Barbara is being unfair.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Who's playing on the hockey tonight? Oh god.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Is it too early for a drink? Shag it, what do I have to do for the next 18 months anyway? From the kitchen window I watched the dog dig a hole in the backyard. Looked like fun, might try it tomorrow. Should I have a nap? Did I already have a nap? Am I napping now? Is there such a thing as a literary pamphlet?

That John Haggie, what a card!

Saturday 4:16 p.m. That John Haggie, what a card! Since exhausting Netflix the daily briefings are now our favourite part of the day. Barbara says Haggie has become a sex symbol. I don't see it myself.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Had it in the back of my mind that the Staycation this year would be a week living in the den but it is completely filled with hoarded toilet paper. My plan was to burn the stockpile in the backyard fire pit to make room but now the restrictions on open fires make me wonder if that's even possible. Breathe, Lorenzo, breathe. Smell the onion.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Barbara made me a face mask from an old brassiere of hers. Prototype covered my entire head, like a hood on a man condemned to hang. But mask version T7 was a perfect fit. Much as when I participated in the Mummers Parade wearing the bra on my face aroused me and I made a romantic overture to Barbara. She wanted no part of it, saying that because of all my chip and beer consumption, onion odour and self-cut hair I had developed a COVID-19 antibody and she was doubling down on physical distancing.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. Too early for a second drink? Poured myself a Murphy's Stout from a can and tried pretending I was belly to the bar, down to The Maudlin Leprechaun having a pint with the lads. Alas it's not the same without someone telling me to "go back to the mainland out of it."Earlier headache vanishes after third Murphy's so ruling out COVID-19. Have misplaced my onion.

A wall around Georgestown

Saturday 4:16 p.m. It isn't enough to simply close down Newfoundland and Labrador to visitors, we must erect a wall around Georgestown. The crowd on the Higher Levels couldn't physically distance if their life depended on it which it does! What would our Georgestown flag look like? Our currency? What would be the national sport of Georgestown? Would have been darts at one time, but nowadays? I may not be thinking clearly.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. From the mad laughter I deduce Barbara has received her CERB money, figured out how to order online from the NLC and is having a Zoom call with her sisters.

Saturday 4:16 p.m. My watch has stopped."Saturday 4:16 pm."

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