by I think I’m over my three days of inexplicable fatigue. Uncontrollable yawning. Numbness in my limbs. Not wanting to do anything. In Romanian there’s a very handy word – chef – which we could do with importing into English. It’s nothing to do with food, and is in fact pronounced keff, which is how I’d spell it if it were an English word. It means desire to do a particular thing. Since Thursday I’ve been totally out of keff. Completely and utterly keffless. I still managed to drag myself around the tennis court twice though. Last night was hard work.
Over 90 workers have tested positive at the Smithfield meat plant here in Timișoara. They produce the Comtim brand of meat that you see everywhere. I’ve had students who work there. These meat plants have been an absolute menace all over Europe and the US; they have perfect conditions for the virus to spread.
I’ve just been on the phone to my brother. They’ve had an offer accepted on a house. In the UK nothing is finalised until they have the keys in their hands, but that’s a good start.
