The day in Birmingham emerges grey, wet and lifeless, like almost every day before it and many days to follow. It's hard to muster the enthusiasm to even empty the rubbish bin, let alone put on a hat at the proper angle and actually get as far as the pub. The park is hardly worth even mentioning (are parks still a thing here?).
No, if I were a virus I would absolutely hang out in Italy, basking in the sunshine and toasting my little corona spikes from morning until nightfall. And why not frequent the beautiful city squares and enjoy some cut price Prosecco at the deserted bars? After all, the people have abandoned the country to me and my brethren so we may as well live it up. We could gather together (they are not even allowed this luxury!) and form a committee, pile into a Cinquecento (how many of us would it hold I wonder?) and then shoot down the E45 to Rimini. Maybe even head for Ravenna to hang out with the mosquitoes, who have more or less taken over the beaches and coastal woodlands down there.
Then with my fellow virions and any of the mosquitoes, sewer rats, ticks, scorpions, vipers, deadly mushrooms, flesh-eating bacteria and poisonous spiders who might care to join us, we could head for Rome to chill with our leader and swap tall tales around the cloisters. Maybe even kick a ball around...
Oh what a life we would have, if only I too could wear the crown!
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