On Monday night I slept solidly for twelve hours.
A lateral flow test taken when I woke with a dry cough on Tuesday afternoon showed, as usual, the strong line against the C... (for "Covid or not Covid, let's see if you have it!")... but also, unusually this time, a faint line as well against the T... (for "Turns out you might actually have it, huh!") Above is a completely unphotoshopped picture of the tent behind the chemist's in the town along the train tracks where, on the longest night of the year, I walked in to get my PCR... (for "Polymerase Chain Reaction")... test, to see whether or not I had indeed brought Omicron into France. Everyone
in London seemed to be coming down with the new variant, but to my surprise, twenty minutes after the swabbing, a text came through to tell me that the result was negative. I didn't have it. And now my cough's gone.
To quote the title song of a childrens'
opera written by my Dad: "Christmas is a Time of Miracles!"
Incidentally, it was only when he came to rewatch "Die Hard" that Dad realised, to his delight, he'd nicked that line from Hans Gruber.
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