It all started, as it often does, on a grey and drizzly evening in suburbia.

I'd just congratulated myself on negotiating another day with nary a sniffle or a dry cough or a life-threatening shortness of breath to speak of. Indeed, while the rest of the country brought out their dead, I was nestled in a comfortable corner of my living room watching Mike Tyson's greatest knockouts on YouTube and feeling as fit and healthy as the man himself in his pomp. It was an interesting clip. I especially liked the part when Mike threatened to eat his opponent's children - and he didn't even need a nice Chianti or some fava beans on the side. Oh no, Mike obviously took his nutrition very seriously and saw this not only as an opportunity to upset his rival by comsuming their offspring, but also to take some premium protein onboard in the process. A genuis move, Michael. A little barbaric, but well thought out.

Then my wife entered the house. She had a sniffle, a dry cough, and a life-threatening shortness of breath. Well, perhaps not the latter, but her symptoms were such that anyone who hasn't been living in a Belarussian cave for the past three months would immediately conclude she'd picked up a dose of corona. And so she went to bed. And there she stayed, with a persistent fever and perpetual aches and pains for the next seven days. In accordance with government guidelines we were officially under quarantine. It was a particulary unpleasant experience. A cocktail of boredom and tedium topped up with a finger or two of fear. The situation begged several questions: when would my wife get better?; when would I get ill?; would the children be affected?; how long before I'm found wanking in a puddle of my own piss in the loft?

As my wife is a key worker, a week after she fell ill we went to Chessington World of Adventures. Hooray! A day out at one of the country's foremost theme parks. Not a little ironic, then, that it is currently being used as a Covid test centre. Two swabs later, one throat, one nostril, and we got back in the car and headed home where my wife immediately returned to the solace of bed, shivering under the barrage of a 39-degree fever.

Thirty hours later (six hours sooner than promised on the test registration card) I received a text message: "Your test result for Covid-19 has come back NEGATIVE".

After reading this my first thoughts were that the good people at the NHS had spelt POSITIVE incorrectly, then, reading further we were instructed to contact my wife's employers and make arrangements to return to work. Return to work?! The women can barely stand up for 30 seconds, let alone assist 20-stone octogenarians with their ablutions.

So I gave her the good news. "You haven't got coronavirus, love. The test came back negative."

I celebrated that evening by banging back half a box of Malbec I'd bought especially for isolation purposes and a couple of cans of Heineken, eventually hitting the hay feeling not quite as toxic as I previously had.

The following day dawned, which was a relief, but my wife was no better. This was now day 10 of whatever ailment it was, and it appeared to be a stubborn little fucker. I decided that the next day, if things hadn't improved that we'd have to brave the outside world again and go to the doctor's surgery.

And sure enough the following day, the temperature was still present. And now it had company, in the form of a decided shortness of breath. I phoned the doctor who urged us to come along to the surgery - and we gladly obliged.

An oxygen saturation test later and I was advised to take my wife to hospital - "And don't hang around"

I gunned it down the A3 as fast as my piece of shit VW Sharan would allow, and swung up outside the Covid Pod at our nearest hospital. I looked at my wife as they led her in through the plastic awning. She was shellshocked, shaking her head in disbelief. So was I...

I was told in no unceratin terms to get the fuck out of there... I probably had the virus, albeit asymptamatically, and they wanted me gone.

I went.

I returned home and the children asked me where mummy was. I told them she had to see another doctor who would be making her better. They started happily playing again.

My brain turned to mush and I felt physically sick. I went to my shed and did an anaerobic endurance workout on the turbo trainer. That levelled things off.

I called her. No answer.

Again. No answer.

Finally... "I'll call you when the doctor has seen me." The words were labooured.

At ungodly o' clock the follwing morning I called here again. They wanted to keep her in... her oxygen levels were still low.

This virus remains a complete unknown, even to medical experts who have spent the past three months dedictating their lives to understanding it. Why is the spectrum of reactions so broad? From asymptomatic to death. Time will tell, and a vaccine can't be concocted quickly enough.

Two days after she'd been admitted, my wife was released from hospital with safe oxygen levels.

We have been lucky.

And I hope you and yours are too.

Staying home is the idiot proof way of ensuring this.

Stay safe.