Love In The Time Of Covid-19

It's at times like these that I am reminded of that wonderful Thomas Mann novella, 'Death in Venice'. A devastatingly beautiful and haunting story of a city in ruins and one man's desperate search for artistic inspiration. Pestilence is rife as the tormented Aschenbach wanders the streets and canals amidst the pale-faced tourists and stench of swilled disinfected pavements, almost succumbing to the fetid atmosphere alone. He discovers a vision of perfection and fears for the health of his muse. The angelic Tadzio, a youth so fragile in his countenance that he almost seems ethereal. So delicate that his porcelain flesh takes on a transparent hue. His hair catching the muted sunbeams attempting to penetrate the mist of disease that envelopes the decaying city. Aschenbach is obsessed. Adoration and love drives him to follow the adolescent wherever he goes, catching a glimpse of his otherworldly beauty which fills him equally with joy and sadness.

So, it is with that in mind I'd like to suggest my ideal scenario, should I fall foul of Coronavirus. Picture the scene; I (somehow) park my wheelchair on the beach at North Shore in Blackpool, just about avoiding the dog turds, used condoms and empty cola bottles - remember kids, we are out of the EU now so none of those pesky bureaucrats telling us to clean up our coastlines! That stupid Blue Flag nonsense can jolly well go back to Brussels. How dare they tell us our country is a shithole eh?!?!? Anyway, I digress... so I'm sat there overlooking the stinking grey sewer more commonly known as the Irish Sea when my attention turns to the very...VERY attractive young man, (18-25 years old, let's be honest here...) far out to sea. His very presence makes my heart sing as he turns to acknowledge me, waving as if we are bonded by some pious ritual somewhere else in time. I pitifully attempt to smile, choking back the blood and goo from deep within my fevered lungs as my sinuses explode into a grotesque mess of mucous. The carefully applied L'Oréal Préférence hair dye, (Brasilia 3.0 actually!) slowly begins to run down the sides of my face before dripping onto my glorified hole-cut-into-a-bedsheet fashioned. As I take my last gasps of air my heavy lungs crackle with fluid and my withered midget husk slumps down in a diseased stupor. I drift off into death's deep slumber, awaiting my fate and pondering over the life I've led. Decisions, choices, personal failings, happy times, memories, positives and negatives all flash before me in a haze. As I take in the last few sentient moments of dying consciousness, I'm left with one final thought, "Shit, I could've had my last leg over with that fit lad if I hadn't fucking croaked!"