Flipping the Bird

My middle finger was signed-off at the Royal Free on Friday.  Prior to the signing-off, my temperature was taken and there were questions.  This did not happen on the two previous visits.  I'm not sure if it was the mutual masking or the strong accent of the nurse, but I simply could not understand the last question.  It ended with "...coronavirus?" so after the third attempt (any more would have been embarrassing) I just said "I don't think so."  It is interesting to postulate that whole lives might turn upon such misunderstanding and embarrassment. 

The finger still looks like it's been in a fight and lost, but it works, and is the right colour now, at least.

As always, I thought I'd take the weekend to get a jump on my week's work ahead, and as always I did not.  A life's habits are hard to change.  Instead I spent the weekend on Netflickery and wondering how my tiny flat got so disgusting when I don't appear to have moved.  Perhaps there exist the opposite of Disney birds that come in and fuck things up for you.

Sunday afternoon I took a walk through Walpole Park, trying to identify where we had waded thigh-deep in the pond during the ladybird summer of 1976, and had squealed at the thought of possible leeches.