Marc Hasenfuss Editor-at-large

Plague diary, week 3: In the past few days it has become increasingly difficult to shake off the cobwebs of morbidity. I fully appreciate the seriousness of Covid-19, but I can’t handle being hemmed in. It was worse when it rained on Sunday, and I could not even trudge around the property, hunched under the burden of the damned medicine ball and chafing from ill-fitting ankle weights.

How I long for the simple pleasures of a head-clearing 5km run and — especially — the therapeutic high jinks of my pals at the Fish Hoek Tennis Club. Cunning plans to modify an automatic tennis-ball machine into a missile launcher (by loading it with petrol-soaked balls and taking potshots at the bowling club’s flagpole) provided a welcome distraction on WhatsApp, for a while.

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