Beware Dragons Bearing Cotton Buds.

Today was Swab Test Day, which meant I had to get up two hours earlier than I usually do which did nothing to improve my habitually awful morning state of mind. I managed, however, and dutifully arrived at the appointed time.

I’ve never had a swab test before. I don’t suppose many people have. Swab tests are one of life’s ubiquitous new experiences, kindly donated to us by a poor, friendless pandemic which just wants a warm home to settle down in and somebody to love it.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t entirely pleasant. The mouth bit was OK, but having an oversized cotton bud rammed up both nostrils almost as far as the eye sockets hurt. I have sensitive sinuses, you know. I do. If they can get sore through being affected by something as innocuous as a change in barometric pressure, how do you think they react to assault by oversized cotton bud? And it didn’t help that the assault weapon was being wielded by the wrong nurse.

Maybe I should I explain what I mean by ‘the wrong nurse.’ Well, there were two of them (as well as a third working in the corner of the canopied enclosure and looking decidedly furtive.) One was a proper nurse, everybody’s idea of a proper nurse, my idea of a proper nurse: young, female, pretty, self-assured, pleasant of disposition, and projecting an indisputable air of authenticity (her only make-up was a light foundation and the merest hint of powder. I notice things like that.) But she was doing the preliminary stuff – taking my name, date of birth, telling me what a nice address I have, that sort of thing.

The second was much older and will probably never smile again. She could have been the young one’s grandmother, and that’s not right, is it? Admittedly, she was also self-assured, but it was more the panzer variety. ‘Open your mouth (plunge and scrape.) Put your tongue over your lower lip (plunge again.) Say ahhh (swish and flick.)  Now for the nose (jab, wriggle, jab, wriggle.)’ ‘OUCH.’ ‘You can go.’ I suspect she might have been Dr Mengele’s granddaughter, although her name was Spanish. Her tag said ‘Nurse El Draque.’ (Well, it would if she’d been wearing one.)

And there was some confusion over the pre-attendance instructions. The letter said I should blow my nose before the test and keep the tissue, so that’s what I did. I assumed they would want the tissue for analysis or something. But no. When I arrived at the entrance to El Draque’s lair I was told ‘First we need you to blow your nose.’ I just did, I replied. The instructions said so. ‘Oh.’ Do you want the tissue? ‘No.’

Confusion reigned for a moment, but only briefly. El Draque was not to be deflected from her purpose. And I worked out later that it was simply a case of a badly written letter. What it should have said was:

You will be required to blow your nose before the procedure, but keep the tissue and take it home with you. We have quite enough unsavoury matter lying around in bins, awaiting collection by specially sealed wagons and removed at dead of night, without adding your nose blowings to the unholy soup.

Then it would have made sense. 

The ordeal was over in about ten minutes and I survived with nothing more injurious than sore sinuses, a headache, and an irregular sneezing habit. Unfortunately, my lifelong fondness for dragons took a bit of a knock.