Secret lockdown diary of Paul Taylor, aged 45 and 1/24th.
Thursday
I wake in my bed. Gingora has already left, destined for downstairs climes and chores. She starts work at 8am. At various points this week, I have tried to popularise the use of the term “Taylor Bonus Snoozy Time”, the time that all the Taylors get each morning that the missus does not.
Gingota is not impressed with Taylor Bonus Snoozy Time. My daughters don’t even know that it exists, because they’re both too busy snoozing at the time this Taylor makes the remarks.
We left for the hospital at 10am; Gingora drove me in the car, wanted to come in but I told her it was probably a bad idea, so she went to buy some chicken instead. Scenes of glorious queuing at St. Homer Street Sainsburys.
The eye hospital was different, considerably less populated than it is usually, evidenced by the lack of people outside smoking a ciggie while still attached to a drip. Half of the staff were wearing facemasks, people were swerving each other appropriately, etc.
My favourite nurse was back today for the injection, and for once, I did not have to read out letters or go to imaging so they could see how fucked up I was. A quick chat, followed by a quick jab.
My favourite nurse penetrated me. Gingora may be upset by this, but given that I’ve just renewed my sight for another seven weeks, I don’t give a fuck. Penetrate me all you like, favourite nurse. Just make sure it’s in my right eye.
Gingora went back to work and bossed her engineers about. She is really quite impressive at this, adopting the feared “mum voice” whenever they step out of line. It is a different management style to mine, but I cannot deny that it is effective.
I passed a health and safety test but have the lowest score amongst my peers. It is basically common sense, and there may be some correlation between my result and the fact that I am a programmer, a profession not famed for an overabundance of common sense.
I am now getting pissed and writing an overlong post on Soton…
