Off the Grid...kind of....Part II

 3 and 1/2 min. read

Part I

In addition to my health issues, 2025 has brought with it a body-snatcher style shift in my landlord, Kojo’s behaviour. Up until recently, we've had a decent rapport. Based in South-East Asia, he passes by every couple of years to check on the place, normally during the festive period. He seems pretty pleased after his Christmas 2024 visit, as he did when he popped by two years earlier. I inform Kojo that the cooker went on the blink temporarily on Christmas Day. Kojo casually suggests I have the hob replaced, since it must be getting on a bit. Seeing the modest size of the T.V. (which he bought himself), he offers to purchase a new one - practically insists. I decline. I never watch it, I explain, it’s for my guests. 

On the other side of the New Year, let’s just say things take a sudden and inexplicable turn for the worst. I know at some point over the festive period, Kojo has suffered a bereavement. It's not clear to me if this has happened before he passes by in December - and he was in a state of shock and/or denial during his visit - or if it's occurred shortly after. In my more charitable moments, I try to be understanding; albeit imperfectly. Kojo's sudden about-turn makes it very hard. The acrimonious exchanges and borderline harassment add a great deal of unneeded stress to my already anxiety-inducing health issues. Fortunately, Kojo and I have arrived at some kind of entente-cordiale, although both acknowledging that my occupancy of the flat is less and less tenable. I will need to find alternative accommodation by the time my lease is up in early Autumn.

Thank God, my studies have been an oasis of sorts. The first quarter of 2025 has brought some encouraging news in the form of several of my abstracts being accepted for various conferences. I nevertheless feel I’m always running behind time. It hasn't helped that my recent health problems have slowed me down. 

One afternoon in late February, I attend a session with a new therapist, Sirin.  I’ve started seeing her in parallel to my (now less frequent) appointments with Sandrine.  Walking-dead exhausted, I catch Sirin up on all the drama that’s been going on lately. She advises I speak to my GP about taking a brief period off university to recuperate. I’m initially reluctant. My studies help redirect my thoughts elsewhere. Plus, I don’t want to fall further behind. Sirin points out that it’s better to take a break now as a pre-emptive measure, than eventually suffer burnout and lose a lot more time in the long run.

I come to appreciate this timely wisdom. When I do eventually see my GP, the pressure at uni has started to increase - as has my anxiety - with various deadlines. I must also find a way to pay for all those conferences fees and related expenses. That begins to weigh on me.

I begin to feel a familiar existential anger about moving from one crisis to another. 

'Lord, Jesus. Can't I catch a break?'

My thoughts become very dark at times.

Meanwhile, my supervisor and my teammates are supportive when I inform ahead of my absence.

My sick leave overlaps in part with Lent, as well as my first 2025 trip to the UK. It's a low-key, bus(wo)man's affair; part study and work, and part meeting up with a select few friends whom I haven't seen in a good while. I’ve already sensed that God wants me to slow down during the Lenten period- and beyond. Stubborn as I can be, if life didn’t intervene, it would be harder for me to do it of my own accord.

(c) Elena Mozhvilo

Since my PhD began last summer, I’ve been struggling with fitting the rest of my life around it. I've known several folk who've juggled doctorates with marriage, children and/or full time jobs. I assumed that, as a single person with no dependents, a PhD would surely be adaptable to my schedule. Not quite.

I once heard a pastor from my UK church advise: 'Don't compare yourself to freaks of nature'.

It’s the opposite to what happened when doing my MA. I forewarned my acquaintances at the time that I’d probably go off the radar quite a bit. Instead, my activities continued pretty much as normal until the last six months. I presumed the same dynamic would apply to my PhD. I willed it to. I have so many commitments that are close to my heart, particularly in the activist space and social action.  Some of these open up incredible opportunities to meet and learn from those who have already made a difference. In February for example, I have a great conversation with one-time anti-Apartheid activist, vocal anti-Zionist Jew and Keir Starmer's constituency nemesis, Andrew Feinstein at Intal's annual political education weekend - or Campus.

 I also want to make quality time for friendships; established and embryonic alike, not to mention a glut of cultural events I'd like to attend. Alas, something has to give. When I mention at the start of the year that time management will be a priority in 2025, my sis warns, You can’t simply add your PhD on top of an already busy schedule. Her words echo in my head.

Recent circumstances have accelerated the re-evaluation of how I distribute my time; negotiating what to maintain, reduce or put on hold until further notice. I know that self-care is central to any plan to make the world a better place. If I burn out, I can't show up for anybody. However, it remains a tricky and, at times, painful process. I have outgoing inclinations. Yet, haunted by Sirin and my sister’s admonitions, I’m aware it’s a necessary process too. Notwithstanding the numerous medical appointments or a problem landlord, I have a busy year ahead; purely on the academic front. 

That brings me full circle to my hiatus from this blog. Prior to recent crises, I would be content to meet my minimum of one post per month, all things considered. At the moment, I can’t guarantee that. My primary blog, I Was Just Thinking, as well as my editorial duties over at Afropean.com take precedence. That said, out of necessity, I'm also scaling back on those preoccupations to some degree. 

The recalibration is ongoing. It might be that some months I’m quite active on these pages followed by several weeks -if not longer - of radio silence.  Either way, it felt rude to proceed without any notice. 

So, until…whenever?

Off the Grid...kind of....Part I

7 + 1/2 min. read

It’s been a while. This is the longest unplanned hiatus to date that I’ve taken from this blog.

The readers that occasionally pass by these pages might not have requested an update but I feel I owe you one.

Let’s just say 2025 has got off to a fairly dramatic start.

One early February morning, I find myself in hospital screaming blue murder from debilitating pain. It began in my lower back but by then, is radiating throughout my whole body.

Rewind to mid-2022. I start feeling pangs on a regular basis on the lower left-side of my back.  I assume it’s a psycho-somatic reaction to a period of prolonged anxiety.  Unable to ignore the pain any longer, I see my GP about it. Before referring me to physio, she suggests I apply Chinese tiger balm to the affected area and prescribes some special exercises. It seems to do the trick. The back pain will return periodically, usually during moments of intense stress, but my GP’s solution continues to be effective.

Until it isn’t.

From late 2024, despite religiously adhering to the regime, the pain does not alleviate. Worse still, it’s spread down to my left leg, close to the calf. It starts encroaching on my everyday life, impeding my movements at the gym. Sneezing induces sharp shocks of pain. Sleeping has also become more difficult. The discomfort from trying to turn in bed wakes me up. I get leg cramps during the night and I’m limping in the mornings. I try to book an immediate appointment with my GP but she’s on maternity leave at that time.

Desperate and not knowing much about back specialists, I go online. The Belgian site dedicated to medical problems of all kinds keeps bringing up osteopath information. I book a session with one based only a stone’s throw away from my flat - and, more importantly - available that same week.

Image courtesy of Nightingale Home Nurse

After I explain my symptoms, to my horror, the osteopath asks me to strip down to my (unmatching) underwear. I’m not even allowed to keep on my tights. Completely unprepared, despite my doubts, I submit to his instructions. I’ll find out later via Google and/or word of mouth that whilst getting undressed for the osteopath is not uncommon, it’s not essential. He should have also offered me a blanket for discretion, and the fact that it's the middle of winter.

Thank goodness, I’ve showered earlier that afternoon and my bikini line is up to date. The osteopath has me contorted in positions that would make the proverbial blush. I feel no man I’m not married to should see me in such a state. He seems almost dismissive about my prudishness; as if I’m overreacting. Surely it's pretty typical. He keeps insisting that I relax.

I’m mortified, I reply.

That’s a big word, he condescends.

And very apt, I retort.

I ask if he’s gay (not the first time I’ve done this in a medical context). No relief there. …But we’re all asexual during examinations…he jokes inappropriately.  

The mini-ordeal lasts for the best part of an hour, during which the osteopath claims I have a 'misaligned pelvis'. This theory makes sense at the time.

At last, properly taking note of my extreme discomfort, he let’s me re-dress. I’m still in pain at the end of the appointment.  That’s normal, he reassures, give it up to 48 hours.

Two weeks later and rather than seeing an improvement, the osteopath seems to have aggravated the situation. Peine perdue. All that humiliation for nothing. Plus 60 euros that I couldn’t really spare down the drain, with negligible assistance from my health insurance. I make an appointment to go back to the same osteopath, figuring he should finish what he started. Then again, I’m afraid he’ll make it worse.

Meanwhile, having herself recovered from a herniated disc a few years ago, my sis is upset with me for seeing an osteopath in the first place. She reckons it’s quack-science.

Go to an orthopaedist, she orders via video call.

Don’t they just take care of feet? I ask, revealing my level of ignorance.

I cancel the appointment with the osteopath and book to see an orthopaedist close to my university campus ASAP.

(c) Annie Spratt

The evening before that appointment, I’m due to host another dinner party. I’m nervous for a variety of reasons. I have a dicey relationship with one particular guest. My invitation is supposed to be an olive branch. My back pain is also playing up again. I’m worried I might have to cancel. Fortunately, it calms down enough not to interfere with my hosting plans. All goes well. I don’t mention anything to my guests.

That evening, I’m awoken in the middle of the night, partially by pain and partially to check I turned off the heating in the living room. I bend down and feel something pop. The pain is so acute I let out an involuntary yelp. It’s around half-past 3am. I’m scared about waking up my neighbours. I bend down again to retrieve something from the floor. Another bad move.

For the best part of the next hour, I negotiate unsuccessfully with my body. The otherwise strong painkillers that I've started taking more regularly (prompted by the osteopath) have no effect whatsoever. I cannot find any sustainable position in which my body is not in unbearable pain. I drag myself into the shower, hoping the hot water will offer some reprieve. I’m trying to avoid going to the nearby hospital at all costs. It would involve me getting dressed, finding my Belgian residency card, dragging myself to the door to let the paramedics in...and unlike the NHS, it's not free. I have hospitalisation insurance courtesy of The University but I have no idea how this works in Belgium. Thank God, up until now I've not needed to know.

I tell myself that I just have to make it through the night and until the orthopaedist appointment at midday.

My body screams 'no'.

I call the ambulance. By the time they arrive around 5am, the pain is so bad, I can’t walk to the van. I can’t even put on my coat, in spite of the cold. They bring the stretcher round to the front of my building. It’s too painful to lie down. The paramedics reluctantly allow me to remain on all fours - the least excruciating position. Unable to strap me in, they beg me to hold tight. One of them teases that I resemble a woman in labour.

I’m tempted to immediately ask for morphine but fear the hospital staff will presume I’m a junkie, faking the pain for a fix. I needn’t bother. They end up pumping me full of it anyway. A nurse pops me some valium at some point to relax my muscles (something I wish they had done earlier).

(c) Sardar Faizan

The needle from the IV digs into my right hand as I continue to be on all fours. I’m still in too much agony to lie down. It takes hours for the pain relief to kick in properly. The nurses tell me there’s not much they can do in the meanwhile or thereafter.

From the moment of the ambulance' arrival, I'm repeatedly asked similar questions by various health professionals. Fortunately, despite the pain - or maybe because of it, since it forces me to slow down - my French is clear and fluid. I've never been more grateful to have a level of fluency in one of the country's official languages. I hear words thrown around like ‘sciatica’ and ‘herniated disc’.

I don’t know if I’ll ever experience the blessing of motherhood. I nevertheless pray that if I do, the process of giving birth doesn’t test my tolerance for pain to the extent of that early morning. Now in a private hospital room, I scream with abandon, interspersed with growling invectives aimed at the Almighty- and the occasional song of worship. 

When the painkillers finally take effect, I fall into fitful sleep with funky dreams. After I awake, I'm served a humble breakfast by a cheery nurse, only too glad to fetch me hot chocolate instead of coffee or tea.

A friendly young doctor prescribes diverse medication to alleviate the pain, including more valium. My mind drifts straightaway to celebrities who have become addicted to legal drugs and/or died from accidentally overdosing on painkillers.

The young doc also prescribes some physio sessions and recommends I see a sports physician at some point. I tell him about my orthopaedist appointment at noon. That’s the next best thing, he agrees. By the time I'm discharged, I’ve been in hospital around six hours.

In the meantime I’ve texted my supervisor, my mum and close friend, Karin to let them know where I am. I leave hospital in time to make my providentially-scheduled midday orthopaedist appointment. He affirms the A&E doctor's advice and writes me a prescription for a MRI scan. The rest of the day is spent in a fog of painkillers. I’m barely coherent. I limp from that day onwards, and not just in the mornings. Walking up the stairs also feels odd.

After a speedily-obtained MRI -a small miracle in itself, I'm told - the images are made available within a few days. The report follows a week later. I can't make head nor tail of it in any language. Google is little help, with results ranging from the risk of quadraplegia to not much more than a momentary inconvenience. I go back to the same orthopaedist to translate the report. Whilst acknowledging my condition has improved, he's clinical and more prone to speak about grim outcomes. I leave the appointment demoralised and a tad bewildered.

(c) Annie Spratt

Mercifully, I have a follow-up appointment with my brilliant physiotherapist, Simone, later that week. She's based at my main gym. Nearly half my age, Simone is confident, full of pep and very competent. Where the doctors tend to go overboard, either prescribing too much physio in one week or, in the orthopaedist's case, being full of gloom, hers is a level-headed and pragmatic voice.

Simone interprets the MRI results for me again but in plainer language. It turns out that I did have a herniated disc and some general wear and tear at the base of my spine. Very common symptoms she says, and nothing insurmountable. Simone commends me for the progress I've made so far and for staying active the whole time. She massages the affected area and tweaks my already light exercise regime. Her prognosis is far sunnier than the orthopaedist's. I just need to be patient, although not for too long, Simone reassures.

My brush with severe back pain will also lead me to discover how common it is. Family members and acquaintances share similar stories of which I was hitherto unaware.

Several weeks later, I’m well on the road to recovery. I walk up the stairs pretty much normally again. I’ve been off analgesics for several weeks. Thank God. The pills were not only pricey but knocked me out. I was constantly making a toss-up between distracting pain or constant fatigue.

There are still tell-tale signs, however. I’m not yet able to run properly and I avoid weights classes. I’ve limited my gym visits to a maximum of three - rather than four - per week whilst I await my return to full capacity.  The limp, whilst diminished, hasn’t yet totally disappeared. I have had a recent relapse that makes it more pronounced on occasion.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful.

Part II

Sign of the Times: Part 1

‘...Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, spend a year there, buy and sell, and make a profit”; whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that.”…But as it is, you boast [falsely] in your presumption and your self-conceit. All such boasting is wrong. ’

James 4:13-16 (NKJV + AMP)


‘God willing’...’By God’s grace’...’Par la grâce de Dieu’...’Se Deus quiser’. Anyone with whom I’m reasonably acquainted would have heard me utter some variation of the above or sign off a text. It’s become a running joke with one friend in particular. He often responds ‘God does want it, so it will happen’.

It’s akin to a verbal tick. Africans and Caribbeans who have grown up within a Judaeo-Christian context would not be strangers to the habit. Some cultures are more familiar with the precarity of life than others. Similar to the Inshallah of Arabic/Islamic cultures, it’s a recognition that even the simplest plans aren’t guaranteed realisation. It’s not supposed to be an act of superstition “just say these words and nothing bad will happen” (although sometimes it unwittingly veers towards that.) It’s meant instead to be a humble acknowledgement that life is fragile. Every day a gift.

These utterances have greater salience now during the existential crisis humanity is currently facing.

In the wake of the COVID-19 or Coronavirus pandemic, the collocation of the words ‘unprecedented’, ‘crazy’, ‘mad’,'extraordinary', ‘strange’,’bizarre’,’frightening’… and ‘times’ have become grim clichés.

As I write these words, I am sitting in a quiet residential corner of Eastern France, close to the German border. Like the other 64 million-odd inhabitants of the country, I am on heavy lockdown. Following a recent national address by President Emmanuel Macron, we are under strict orders to only leave our homes for ‘essentials’; necessary food shopping, medical appointments and limited physical exercise for example. Visiting family and friends is prohibited bar a few exceptions. We are to venture outdoors with a signed and dated government-issued form or face a fine of up to €135. These measures are projected to be in place until at least the end of March. Places of worship, libraries, cafés, restaurants and most shops had already been obligated to close their doors until further notice. Weddings, baptisms and other rites are suspended, funerals restricted to brief grave yard ceremonies.

Like some of its other European neighbours, France has closed its borders for a month, with possibility of extension. The country is surrounded by the states most affected by the crisis on the Continent, alternating positions with Germany as the third worst hit after Italy and Spain. A planned visit to the UK was indefinitely postponed as a result. A blessing in disguise. By all accounts, cities across the Channel are turning into ghost towns. In the face of the Johnson government’s comparatively sluggish, apparently economically-motivated response, organisations and individuals have been using their discretion. Even if I’d somehow made it over to the UK before the borders shut, it would have been nigh on impossible to do anything or see anyone.

Globally, things have escalated so rapidly that it's enough for an Oscar-winning actor , returning from a fortnight's remote retreat, to be out of the loop.

At the start of the COVID-19 outbreak and for the ensuing months I maintained what I thought was a healthy scepticism. Bad news sells, I reasoned. It was in the interest of media outlets to sensationalise. After all, the flu can claim up to well over half a million lives a year. If I paid any mind, I too would succumb to panic and paranoia. Having mostly afflicted the Far East, it was somewhat abstracted; even with my sister living in Japan-not trusting the statistics put out by Shinzo Abe's government.

 I didn’t remain glued to the numerous news updates on the evolution of the disease, even as the confirmed cases soared and moved geographically closer. For a time, I paid more attention to the twists and turns of the hopeful, then ultimately frustrating, US Democrat race to select a presidential candidate.

I tried to ignore the ominous, ever-spiralling statistics. For weeks, I drew guilty and perverse comfort from knowing that most victims were elderly and/or already of fragile health.

I am inevitably drawn out of this self-imposed bubble after the ramifications spread closer to home. I am at a gathering of street outreach volunteers when I hear that a church in Greater Alsace has experienced a major COVID-19 outbreak. My own church starts to take precautionary measures. Public health posters near the entrance and a compulsory squirt of hand sanitiser at the door. I still maintain it is all a bit too much.

There remains some morbid humour about it; perhaps as a means of staving off the dread. I hear jokes about having Coronavirus when someone coughs or closes in to give the bise. Eventually, the more physical contact is discouraged, the jokes centre around fist-bumps and finally, not making contact at all.

My church takes the pre-emptive step of suspending all gatherings within its four walls and moving services online. Members are informed that there have been dozens of cases in our midst, some hospitalised. As the French government’s measures become more severe, the pastoral team put a halt to even small group meetings at home.

I notice music venues are emptier. That is, if the gigs happen at all. At one of the last events I attend before the total lockdown, the bandleader thanks the audience for showing up. Life has become very hard for musicians, he explains.

=
Still, I am determined to hold onto a semblance of normality. When a friend cancels a meet-up because of her COVID-19 related fears, I am irate. It is the latest in a long list of flimsy excuses for being a no-show. She’s a former colleague. She still works at the large-scale international NGO where we met. I hear that the Organisation has all but ceased activity in light of the health crisis. You have more chance of catching it at the office than a café, I tersely remind her.

An evening out with an acquaintance becomes awkward as soon as I mention I have a cold. He eyes me as if I were a suicide bomber. I attempt unsuccessfully to move the conversation away from the virus. He is stockpiling for Armageddon, he tells me, with only a little irony. 

I, on the other hand, have not been stockpiling. Currently in between jobs, I have a tighter budget to consider. Neither do I observe the shopping frenzy this side of the Channel that I’ve been hearing about in the UK. With the exception of less hand sanitiser and wipes on both sides of the Franco-German border; even with buying quotas imposed. My local chemist sells sanitiser at exorbitant prices. I discover this whilst on the hunt for masks which, I am promptly told, have been requisitioned by the French government for front-line medical staff.

As the situation in neighbouring Italy continues to rapidly deteriorate, I contact my acquaintances with a link to the country to ask after their families.

Meanwhile, I have been struggling with cabin fever, long before the lockdown. Months of uncertainty over my employment status have taken chunks out of my morale. I have had a head start on the post-COVID-19 economic instability that sadly now confronts many.

I enjoy my own company but I am a social animal. I fill my days with as much activity as possible but miss the consistent interaction of the workplace. The light depression I’ve experienced a number of times since relocating, begins to creep around the edges once again. I’m tearful for days at a time. The task of job hunting starts to overwhelm me.

I have outlets at least, like a community Gospel choir, church, volunteering, occasionally meeting up with friends. The Médiathèque in central Strasbourg is a sunlit sanctum; an alternative space to write and study.

One by one, these lifelines disappear within a couple of weeks. The virus’ impact on the French Grand Est region has been especially hard. The Prefecture clamps down before Central government does. Libraries are closed, as are arts and culture venues. The choir's administration team decide to indefinitely postpone rehearsals. I stay connected with church through Sunday morning livestreams.

At that moment, my planned trip to the UK becomes a distant beacon of respite from the solitude. I am even more preoccupied than usual about the details of the visit. If friends are slow to respond, it makes me disproportionately anxious.


The night before I am due to leave, I receive a cancellation email from the coach company. Another journey is suggested which I am unable to reserve. The system is in freefall. I have a mini meltdown. For the past week, this trip has been the one thing to keep the melancholy at bay. I have to escape.

It’s around midnight. I call my mum, shaking and crying. She keeps her sang-froid, calmly telling me to persist. If I can’t re-book now, I can try later. Suddenly, there’s a system breakthrough. I manage to reserve a journey a day after the original. Less reassuring, I am sent two tickets for two different itineraries.

The next morning I break out of self-isolation to print my ticket at the Post Office; one of the few places still operational. Whilst getting ready, I listen to reports on BBC World Service Africa.

It’s been encouraging to hear of so few confirmed cases on the African Continent so far. I had hoped citizens had not capitulated to the hysteria. But no. Panic buying occurs in countries whose confirmed cases are still only in the single digits. Ethiopia, Tanzania and Ghana close schools days before the more-at-risk UK population are instructed to do the same. Kenya’s Catholic churches no longer use holy water. Holy Communion is adapted to avoid contamination. South Africa, the hardest hit on the Continent, instates a wide-ranging travel ban. 

Later that morning, there’s a queue when I arrive at the Post Office. Only five customers allowed at a time. A staff member stands by the door, controlling it with a remote. It reminds me of the ‘two schoolchildren’ in some British newsagents.

As usual, the PO's printer doesn’t recognise my USB (although still takes my money). It would have been a wasted trip except for bumping into a former colleague en route. It’s through him that I hear the rumour of a heavier lockdown.

Earlier that morning, I had another meltdown over my forthcoming UK trip. Slowly but surely however, I start to make my peace about not going. I’ve had a stubborn cough for nearly a couple of weeks. An older friend with a history of heart problems asks me if it’s safe to visit. I reassure him as much as I can but I too have my doubts.

I pray the final decision is taken out of my hands. I don’t trust myself to make the right choice.

On the way back from the Post Office I take a detour to a local Catholic church. I don’t care about the denomination. I just need tranquillity. It might be the last time I have the opportunity before the major lockdown. The building is calm; modern and inviting.  I notice the holy water fonts are inaccessible, as in other parts of the world. It’s blissful inside, even if my thoughts are not.

I pass a woman on the way out. It turns into a spontaneous moment of solidarity; both of us admitting our initial incredulity, since turning into anxiety over the unknown.

We don’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I leave without knowing her name. I do thank her for the warm interaction. It helps me come to terms with this new reality. Thank God for faith.

(This post also features on my I Was Just Thinking blog)

Part 2

Cabin Fever

(courtesy of Houstonia magazine)

I routinely daydream about smashing things up. Throwing objects against walls and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

It could well be fatigue. I’ve developed an unconscious habit of waking up between 4 and 6am, pumped with adrenaline and unable to fall back asleep properly. (It would help if I could also discipline myself to go to bed earlier.)

Oddly enough it’s the days and not the nights that get to me. Perhaps because I’m more alert.

I persevere, continuing the job hunt despite my reluctance. I don't have the luxury of doing otherwise. I attend a workshop on working overseas. I continue my monthly meetings with my careers adviser. She asks me how I am doing. 'Not very well', I confess. It's all I can do not to weep in her office.

The isolation has begun to eat away at me. Light depression stalks at the edges.
I’ve been here before during unemployment. My soundness of mind has survived. Just. By the grace of God.

All I can do is wait it out. Lent is upon us. A time for spiritual recalibration and stillness. I’m in my own wilderness. It probably feels bigger than it is because I’m in the thick of it; in between calling out to God in frustrated prayer and waiting for a response.

I’ve started de facto small group therapy sessions at church, led by Chantelle.

She tells us not to deny our reality. We must acknowledge it, she advises, but framed in the light of God’s truth.

Easier said than done but salient nonetheless. By the time that session has come round, I’m emotionally spent.

Time to take the attention off myself.

I pop round to see fellow chorister and friend, Michelle, who’s recovering from an operation. She and her sister Karine give me a warm welcome. Of a similar political persuasion, I spend a lively hour in their company discussing the latest twists and turns in the UK and France.

After leaving Michelle's I make a well-needed spiritual pit stop at Temple Neuf for the weekly Respire meditation session.

Later that evening, it's the first choir rehearsal since that meeting. A few of the newer members have stayed away. I wouldn’t blame them for feeling dejected. It's a respectable turn out otherwise, considering. Nicole has asked me to revisit May The Lord God Bless You Real Good.

I focus on the general structure of the song, for those who are not yet familiar. The fine-tuning of the details will be for another time. It’s a task trying to get the fellows to keep their harmonies, especially not being a male vocalist myself. I encourage where I can and endeavour to keep it stimulating. I swap around harmonies and ask the choristers to switch places to help them develop some musical autonomy. The feedback is really positive. I'm chuffed.

(SNUipp)

Out in the real world, as the media hysteria ramps up, there's a lot of gallows humour amongst the Strasbourgeois about Coronavirus. I guess it’s all that cheek-kissing. And the relative proximity of Italy, which has seen a spike in cases.

The City's carnival, scheduled at the start of March, is cancelled once more. A combination of Coronavirus panic and ominous weather forecasts.  It makes no sense to hold it in late winter in any case. It's the second consecutive year the event has been pulled. I feel bad for the young uns involved.

On the way into my church building, I spot a poster imploring citizens to take necessary precautions. A member of the Welcome Team stands at the entrance. No-one is getting past without a squirt of hand sanitiser first. The senior pastor raises a prayer at the end of the service for anyone affected by the virus.

I give the evil eye to anyone coughing without covering their mouth. My racist streak surfaces when I witness an Oriental man doing just that on the bus home from church.

The following week, our normal Sunday service will be cancelled altogether after news of a COVID19 outbreak at a megachurch in the Greater Alsace area. During the alternative livestream service via Youtube, the pastoral team inform us that there have been a few congregants diagnosed with the virus. They're all confined but otherwise in relatively good shape, except for one who has been hospitalised. As an added precaution, the team announces that church will be closed all week at least and activities suspended.

Other events follow suit. A jobseekers' event I was supposed to attend is cancelled. As is a concert at which my choir were meant to perform.

I attend a midweek Jazz event that is only half as full as it was the previous fortnight. That same weekend, at another Jazz concert, the bandleader thanks the audience profusely. It's a difficult time to be a musician, he says with so many cancelled engagements. Heads swivel round whenever I cough or sneeze.

An acquaintance with whom I meet up later refuses to attend any shows during the COVID19 crisis. When I mention I have a cold, he looks at me as if I had a bomb strapped to my person. He later informs me he's stockpiling food. 'For Armageddon'. He's only half-joking.

Coronavirus is one of the many topics of conversation at the official opening of my friend Gael’s Afropean restaurant.

I could kick myself for not having worn something more traditional for the event, especially when I notice one of Gael’s guests representing the Motherland.

I feel a little intimidated by all the unfamiliar faces. Gael instantly welcomes me into the fold, introducing me to his crew who in turn take me under the wing.

How did you meet? they ask.

Oh she’s my ex. We slept together. I cheated on my boyfriend with a woman.

Cheeky monkey.

Phew. I say, It’s suddenly hot in here.

Delicious hors d’oeuvres circulate. Having gone vegetarian for Lent I fear I might miss out. Gael has me covered with his Tofu pastries. Used to it tasting like cardboard, I never knew the bean snack could be this good.

Gael's childhood friends, Claudine and Kéké are spontaneously complimentary about my French. God knows I need the encouragement. It relaxes me. We discuss topics such as language acquisition, their experience of Berlin (they don’t recommend it, at least in winter), our mutual distrust of Emmanuel Macron and disdain for his policies.

If I lived in the UK or US, I’d be a socialist too observes Claudine. In France, we don’t need to be socialist to protect what we already have.

In a shockingly underhanded move, the Prime Minister Édouard Phillippe has sneaked through the controversial retirement bill without a parliamentary vote. A legal loop hole has been used under the pretext of an emergency weekend sitting to discuss Coronavirus measures.

Prepare for war, says Claudine.

Vive la revolution, I reply.

The flamboyant Gerard introduces himself by voguing and seductively kissing my hand. Kéké starts ironically singing ABBA's Dancing Queen and Gael decides to put it on. I do a shimmy and work the room a bit more. I hold court with Gael’s newest (and dishiest) waiter whilst ordering my favourite sweet snack, Kudu. Gael offers to hook me up with a date but I demure on account of age. I’m happy just to admire from a distance.

I chat with another waitress; an Afrobeat and Hip-Hop dancer like sis. I pass on her Gram details.

(c) Olivier Galleano

At the end of the night, I bid a fond farewell to newly made acquaintances.

Gael’s crew will return to Paris the following day. His friends are a credit to him. I hope to see them again. Not knowing when my Strasbourg adventure will end, alas that might be wishful thinking.

For now, the evening has given my morale a well-needed if temporary boost. I could complain about my lot; my frustrations about being caught up in limbo once again and not exactly knowing how I'll continue to pay rent in the meantime. All those things are genuine challenges. To be grateful is not to pretend.

I would also do well to savour the fact that, thank God, I'm in good health in spite of the viral panic. I have the freedom and independence during this life season to come and go as I please. I can spend an evening eating good food and having stimulating conversation with a diverse and cultured crowd in a chic corner of the world.

Perspective my dear, perspective.

Soundtrack: Kamakiriad & The Nightfly by Donald Fagen, Letter from Home by the Pat Metheny Group and AmerElo by Emicida