I sat in the reception area at the hospital this morning
cradling the papier maché tray containing my urine sample (in a sealed little
bottle so you don’t spill it), when I noticed that the middle aged woman
sitting in the next seat (suitably socially distanced, you understand) was
doing the same. And then, much to my surprise, I further noticed that the
colour of her sample was just about exactly the same as mine. I considered
pointing out to her that I used to be a professional photographer and my colour
vision is excellent, and that maybe the correspondence of hues indicated that
we might be distant cousins or something. But I didn’t because she looked far
too prim and I’ve discovered through the course of a somewhat fractured life
that scandalising prim middle aged women can be rather dangerous.
As for the scary bit I mentioned last night, it turned out
fine. I even got to have quite a long conversation with a dark haired nurse
from Donegal (which ought to be a song title, but as far as I’m aware it isn’t.)
When I mentioned that two of my abiding passions in life were always whisky and
colleens, there was general agreement that such proclivities are very Irish, so
that was OK.
And I saw the word ‘Shirley’ on a signpost. Twice. Which was
nice.
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