Between you and me, she had a breakdown at university. Completely cracked up and had to take a year off. I think one of her parents died or something? Anyway, she’s quite fragile. I intend to send a holding e-mail advising good infection control practice and to get in touch if anything further. Flag if you disagree.
Thanks,
Leah
E-mail from Raymond McNab （r.mcnab@healthprotectionscotland） to Leah Spicer （[email protected]） 10:42 a.m. on November 4, 2025
Thanks Leah.
By the sounds of it, a stark raving lunatic who’s trying to waste the limited resources and time of this institution. Not to mention my patience. Ignore please.
Ray
CATHERINE
London, United Kingdom
Day 5
I’ve never been good at the school pickup. I don’t like talking to groups of people I vaguely know. Strangers are fine, as are, obviously, friends. I just cannot form a clique to save my life. The nursery gates are rife with stressful opportunities for me to put my foot in my mouth or misinterpret a friendly hello as a “Come and talk to us!” wave when actually it was a “I’m busy talking to someone, nice to see you from a distance!” wave. I have a PhD in Social Anthropology and yet the difference between these two waves can easily be lost on me. The irony, by contrast, is most certainly not.
For the last few days pickup has been stressful in a different way. Everyone wants to talk, not because they think I’m a brilliant conversationalist （although I live in hope）。 No, they seem to want a verbal sounding board for their mounting anxieties. The Plague is all anybody can talk about even though we’re all assuring each other that it’s very far away, what is it up to Glasgow? Four hundred, five hundred miles? Perfectly safe. The authorities will have it all in hand soon. One of the other mums, a lawyer, has told me three days in a row, in the resolute, inarguable tone I’m sure she uses in court, that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. Absolutely. Nothing. If she’s trying to convince herself I hope she’s more successful than she’s been in convincing me because all she’s done is stoke the panic I’ve kept simmering away.
It feels like yesterday we were celebrating Guy Fawkes Night at the St. Josephs fireworks night. It was an evening of hot dogs, mittens, adorable pictures of Anthony holding a pink-cheeked excited Theodore. It was the last time I remember feeling truly relaxed and happy in a crowd of people and it was only five days ago. The news is still using the subdued tones of journalists who deal in facts not opinions. But the facts are becoming increasingly nauseating on their own. A virus affecting only men. “This has not been confirmed by officials but has been widely observed in the outbreaks in Glasgow, Edinburgh and along the West Coast of Scotland,” they intone on the news.
I’ve been racking my brain and I can’t think of a single infectious disease that affects only men. I mean, it’s not like I have a particularly good knowledge of infectious diseases, but still. Isn’t it weird? Why is no one from a hospital or the government confirming how weird that is? It would make me feel better in a strange way if someone from an official body came out and said, “This is unheard of. We have no idea what is going on.”
Beatrice, normally my social savior—my “nursery” friend—grabs me by the hand, frightening me.
“Beatrice!” She sent her nanny to do pickup the last few days. It’s a relief to see a friendly face but the relief quickly dissolves. She is drawn and haggard.
“I’m moving to Norfolk. Tomorrow.”
“What? You’re what?” I splutter. Beatrice has a country house in Norfolk where she spends, at best, four weekends a year, letting it out on Airbnb the rest of the time.
“The virus. I don’t like the sound of this, Catherine. There’s been an outbreak in Streatham. I’m getting out of the city before it’s too late.”