WINDOW VIEWS - The Self In Isolation

She had decided to stay at home a while back, of her own free will. It was just a standard preventative measure, in times of infection, to reduce contact. Little had then been known about the Mir-Th virus, other than the more obvious symptoms - sudden amusement, a slight chuckle fast accelerating into uproarious fits of giggling, similar to canned laughter. In the worst instances to the point of prostrate hysteria, where blood vessels could burst. If the latter went unchecked it could be life threatening. For Rita, an occasional inappropriate guffaw had been the earliest indication of the decay in her social inhibitors.

Where the Mir-Th virus had come from, no one yet understood. Essex had been mischievously suggested. Outbreaks had come out of the blue, but quite uniformly across the Home Counties. Not everyone saw the unbridled hilarity as being the problem it was. As the laughter was often directed towards the government, it appeared entirely justifiable. The silent curfew they subsequently imposed had seemed rather self serving, and face saving.  The BBC, as was then expected of them, self censored and took Michael MacIntyre off air as a precautionary measure. The media saw this as either too little, too late, or an easy but empty gesture. Because MacIntyre had ceased being actually funny a long long time ago.

Rita had taken to staring out the second floor bay window of her flat, with little sense of purpose. Since she'd put her self in isolation, it automatically became a regular habit to sit there contemplating, observing all the many eccentricities, contrived and otherwise, parading themselves outside in the street beneath. A world these days seemingly full to bursting with a lot of vain preening and self preoccupation. A rather willowy middle aged man swinging by in a hurry, caught her attention. Something in the character of his bearing, came across as po-faced, so consumed was he by superior derision for everyone surrounding him. This caused a slight featherish tickle of hilarity within her. It was beginning again.

Once self amusement was present, uproarious laughter was never far behind. Then there'd be melodramatic pointing and the crude gesticulations from her window, urging the other folk walking by to just look at the state of this man. Such out of control hilarity making everyone who saw it cringe with embarrassment. Since the appearance of the virus they'd be seen stepping slowly away from anything like this. Removing themselves to a considered safe distance. Rita's saving grace was that she was one floor up, and behind glass. Otherwise she'd probably have been arrested and incarcerated in a secure hospital ward by now.

Even when the Mir-Th restrictions were lifted, Rita chose to remain voluntarily confined to her flat, waiting for her virus symptoms to fully clear up. Only going out, to get her doctors note and hand it in at work. She continued to find everything, including the Mir-Th itself, just too unbearably hilarious. Her boss and work colleagues were concerned she might never get over it. There'd been broader questions about what to do with individuals who suffered from Prolonged Mir-Th. The muscles in her chest and throat were now so permanently damaged, rubbed raw and torn from the near constant laughter. Catching the virus had turned her lifestyle upside down. For Rita her flat, though a refuge, had now become a prison, a sealed shrine to it. She also frequently laughed at herself, but that was also part of the problem.