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Episode 8: The beginning of the end?

By Johnny Sandelson


At 5.30am I am awaken to an abrupt sound, like a burglar in the house. I have a very thin yellow curtain which is normally drawn to provide me some protection against the human dance of nurses and doctors in the core, but now it’s my barrier against the intruder. But it’s no acoustic separation, I hear loud and aggressive wrestling with the bin.

Instead of confronting this intruder, I roll over, and literally slide my head under the Raffles supplied duck-down pillow. When I next check my phone it’s 8am.


I have finally conquered jet lag. It is now 16 days since I first arrived in Singapore, and for the first time, apart from the intruder’s wrestle, I’ve had my first good night’s sleep.

Meals arrive in boxes with a sealed lid. The plastic ‘plate’ comes with four compartments. In the first sits a mound of rice, another carries a portion of non-descript meat or fish, the third section contains a congealed sauce, and the final section contains what must be a vegetable.


Sometimes the box comes with white cubes in the meat section,I understand this to be called Tofu. On these occasions I just reject the meal entirely, and place it carefully into the yellow bin.

For some bizarre reason they have started doubling my portions. Is it because I asked to be weighed, is it because I mostly don’t eat. Is it because through a security black box above my bed they are monitoring my incessant walking backwards and forwards on my 7 meter stretch between window and my view of the core?

Usually my eating habits are as follows, I pick enthusiastically at the small meat section, and then quickly seal the box closed, dispatching the rest into the bin. When Covid-19 stripped me of my sense of taste, it worked well to fulfill my strategy of a low carb diet.

I’ve been trying to fulfil a significant weight loss for a long time. During a medical, without needles, a decade ago they called me entirely healthy, but clinically obese.


Because it was a private clinic, as a sweetener, they said that my weight profile is however no different to that of a rugby player, or a rower. Before you say anything, I do recognise that there are many other things which distinguish me from those sporting elites.

One friend told me years ago that his technique was to avoid pasta, rice, bread, essentially anything white. He advised that If I followed those rules, I would quickly see my weight diminish.


Usually after a couple of weeks on the diet, my resolve weakens, and I can’t resist a lasagne, or my breakfast kedgeree, or white truffle shavings over tagliatelle.


But it’s a regime that I often adopt, usually in a panic before a beach holiday. Occasionally I start the diet as I unexpectedly capture an image of myself in a shop window. I’m two meters tall so I can carry my weight well without risk of being seen as obese, but for me it’s a fine line, and vanity demands that I keep on the right side of it.


My real marker is my Tom Ford jacket. If it fits perfectly, then I know I’m in good shape. Honestly, It hasn’t been worn for over two years.

Over those years there has been high levels of stress and anxiety. Threats from Canadians, and attacks from an ex-partner has played a toll. All my energy has been focused on fighting, I have placed too little attention on my health and wellbeing. I was so resigned to this state of affairs, that I even decided to go to my tailor and have suits made to conceal my expansion.

Anyway, the imposition of hospital food, the long-held ambition to become a clinically healthy weight, and obviously the lack of alternative temptation, has meant that I can report that I have lost ten per cent of my weight since I first arrived in Singapore.

So my question is this? Were they sending in burglars in the night to explore my bin for evidence of having thrown away the fully-laden sealed trays. Did they think I have developed an eating disorder? Will they be sending me for psychological evaluation?

I receive the regular call at 9am which normally proffers me no more than a medicinal jug of warm water. They check yet again on my lack of symptoms, no cough, no chest pains. Then the doctor casually remarks that yesterday I had tested ‘negative’.And that another ‘negative’ result today would mean my departure.

I’m strangely sanguine on receipt of this longed for news. An hour earlier whilst in the shower I decided to perform a daily gratitude list. All my family were safe and well.

My siblings had needed to come together yesterday to find a solution to manage the care of our aged mother who can’t be left alone. Her carer has developed Covid-19 symptoms. Fortunately, the siblings and Draycott had risen to the challenge. I had many things to be grateful for. So then I decided to expand the list.

This Covid-19 imprisonment in hospital has afforded me an important juncture in my mid-life.

It has taught me to develop skills I didn’t think I possessed. I have kept to a diet, designed and kept to a strict exercise regime. As a direct consequence there was no longer any back pain, and there was a significant weight loss.

Furthermore, my self-esteem had lifted on the back of a discovery of my new-found writing skill. The Daily Telegraph called me yesterday to say they wanted to publish my work.

Yesterday I was involved in a business Zoom discussion surrounding a fundraiser. To some degree we are fortunate, we have a weak pound which will attract overseas investors, and a business product offering care and wellbeing of the elderly.

If Covid-19 changes anything it is to reinforce the power of technology . It now seems so normal for these Internet phonecalls. I was joined by perhaps a cast of twenty others from all continents. Due to my attire of mauve pyjamas and hospital cell I decided to avoid the video function. Conference calls are no impediment to this £500million capital raise.

Yet, in truth, we are all now in isolation. My situation carries with it a certain grandeur, which I obviously cherish. But I do wonder whether the demand for office buildings will weaken in a post pandemic Britain. It seems such an archane idea that everybody wakes up and goes to an office every day.

I heard overnight that the UK government has finally closed down the country to all but essential work. It seems so strange that Singapore continues with its bars, and restaurants open and real-life meetings. What looked like extreme measures when they were taken two months ago, have kept a few in tough quarantine conditions, but it seems to have protected their wider community.

Whilst Britain sits in anticipation of a tsunami of death , Singapore looks set for a swift return to normality. If this plays out according to plan, it’s a remarkable testimony to planning and order.

Another day, and it’s my regular 9am call. Expecting the usual prescription of a jug of water, I am informed that my swab from yesterday tested negative. After 15 days it seems my body has finally rejected and expelled the Covid-19.

It feels strange therefore that my first thought isn’t immediately one of elation. Read that sentence again. I feel unsettled. How will Charles react? Remember he is six days my senior. I feel a sense of guilt, and oddly embarrassment for my own good fortune.


There’s also a double test requirement. I need to test negative once more today to be assured of my exit. Charles and I have played a lot of backgammon, occasionally one’s fortunes can have an unexpected reversal. What often looks like a simple exit from the blackboard can often lead to a bizarre twist.

I’m not really prepared to consider my exit. I can’t be bothered to face the disappointment of a positive reading. Anyway, I’m enjoying my writing and my walking.

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