Dear Doc
The weather is wonderful again. I woke up around 7 a.m. this morning. I had two coffees in my garden and a chat with a friend, an internet specialist. I asked him for help in creating the website for my blog. I will make these letters public. If I only write them for myself, that would be lonely and there is a chance you would never see them. I decided to share them with whoever wants to read. Perhaps the interest for my letters won’t be high but I would still like to share them. I would like to have a blog on which people who read my letters will be able to leave comments. My daughter warned me that I will for sure get some nasty comments. I think I am prepared for that. How many people would actually understand me? I am not sure, but I believe that people would understand if I am honest and if I explain my feelings well. My start point is not great. I am a patient deeply in love with my GP. He is a married man. Who would not characterise my feelings for you as entirely socially unacceptable? But feelings are feelings and not a rational category that can bring people into a wide range of unexpected situations.
I haven’t spoken with you after I donated 3000 pairs of gloves and a few masks to your surgery on behalf of my University. I was happy I could help you and the people around you. It was a huge joy I could do something useful for you. I would also offer, if I get a chance, to bring you a warm meal occasionally. I would do that every day but I assume even in the time of a pandemic, that would still remain socially unacceptable. I do not have a very big variety of food that I prepare but friends who have joined me for dinners in my home have liked it. I do not know if you are a vegetarian or you have some other dietary requirements, but I would adopt my kitchen to you. In the meantime I am teaching my daughter to cook. She is a girl that was not enthusiastic to learn cooking till the moment she left our house and went for Uni. Now she is back home because of the lockdown and I can see she is keen to learn.
I know you have a daughter too. I also know your kids are teenagers, but I do not know how old your daughter is. Does she like to cook? Does she look at all similar to her dad, if she does she must be a gorgeous girl. If not, she can still be a gorgeous, beautiful girl like my daughter. As you had a chance to see once, my daughter is not at all like me.
I was at work this morning. Had to take some data for a paper my collaborator wrote. It was very weird to enter the building. Apart from Tara on reception, the building was empty. All is familiar and the same as I left it, and yet all is different. The people are missing. Although I have great time with my daughter at home I hope we will be back to near normal in the not too distant future. I miss my work, my co-workers, students, researchers and friends.
I miss you more than anybody. I’d like to go for a walk towards your surgery, but it would be disappointing to be there and not to see you.
I am back to you after sleeping, watching the Government briefing and a bit of news. I have reduced the amount of news I watch per day for my mental health. I find I am happier when I know less. The BBC Breakfast in the morning is great. It is particularly nice that they have interviews with various GPs. They talk about problems they have to face and that gives me info about your working days and problems you most likely have too. Quite religiously me and my daughter follow the Government briefing at 5 p.m. each day. In this way we get all the relevant news first-hand. I like Dominic Raab, the foreign secretary, and surprisingly to all my friends and my brother, I like Boris Johnson too. His enthusiasm during the crisis was evident on briefings and I am deeply sorry he caught the Covid-19 virus and he has not been well ever since. I hope Boris will get better soon.
I am writing this while sitting in my garden. You should see the sunset; it is so lovely. I wish you were near me. And I wish for your hug. About our hug and my dream, I will write more, and I’ll most likely write often.
Stay safe.
Kristina
Thursday April 23rd, 2020
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