I wasn’t
feeling the best today. Still wrecked after the weekend, but what really did me
in was being woken up in the early hours by a fit of coughing. You know the
kind that feels like your lungs are about to land on the floor.
Later in
the day, a message came through from the AIMS committee:
“We’d
like to advise all those who were in attendance at the weekend that a number of
members from lots of different groups around the country have been in touch to
advise they have tested positive for COVID.”
Not
exactly a shock, I suppose. I mean, you can’t beat a musical theatre crowd for
enthusiastic hugs, kisses, and the odd impromptu group number.
So, off I
went in search of a test. Back in pandemic times, you couldn’t turn around
without tripping over a pile of antigen tests. Now? It’s like a black-market
treasure hunt. Eventually, I tracked one down and brought it home like it was
the Holy Grail.
Cue the
eye-watering ritual: swab up the nose, swirl it around, try not to sneeze the
house down.
Then came
the wait… the tense 12 minutes of watching the little window, praying not to
see that second red line.
And…
nothing.
Negative. Thank God!
I’m due
to head off for the weekend with Aunty Peggy, and I couldn’t risk exposing a
92-year-old to Covid. That would definitely not get me a Favourite Niece
nomination this week.
Honestly,
I’ve never been so relieved to fail a test.
Well…
Actually.
There may have been a long-ago pregnancy test that also brought a fair bit
of relief…
But the less said about that the better!
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