As long foretold, the legendary third part of the ancient roster related communications triumvirate.
Subject: Je suis malade
Hi All,
Lots of lurgies around at the moment. I’m a little under the weather myself, but at least I’m past the gargling hot razor blades stage that I was at yesterday. A big thank you to Vicki for covering my DA shift, and I hope it wasn’t too traumatic. I had to give away my tickets to the film “Knock” last night. I’ve really been enjoying the French Film Festival this year – more my line than the International Festival of the Arts (more accessible – and cheaper). “Tour de France”, a film I saw earlier this week, was surprisingly not about a bicycle race, but a Parisian rapper going incognito to avoid some deadly enemies. I had forgotten just how truly execrable French music is. It was a lovely little film anyway, although I’m not sure how much the man in the row behind me enjoyed it. He started snoring as soon as the lights went down and only stopped as the final credits were rolling. Gerard Depardieau (playing an old eccentric fat racist) would have been mortified, although actually he has a “f**k you” persona that I’m not sure is just acting, so perhaps he wouldn’t care.
My oldest daughter has been coming with me to the festival films. The course she signed up for has finally started, and she is enjoying it so far. There’s an interesting mix of people doing the course with her. The boy she shares a desk with wasn’t there on Monday, turns out he was in jail over the weekend: some minor misunderstanding as to whether he’d finished his community service over the Summer or not – could have happened to anyone! Apparently he’s really lovely, though. All I can say is, you’re not in Marsden now, Miss Jordan!
Speaking of appearances, I’ve had a great deal of trouble getting my passport photo sorted in recent weeks. You’re allowed to provide your own photo these days, instead of popping down to the chemist to pay through the nose for four tiny unflattering pictures which you then post off to internal affairs. My husband took a quite appealing portrait of me last time, and I even got away with a little smile, which I was quite proud of. A totally different story this time. My photos got rejected so many times that I was assigned my own immigration officer, Jasmine. I believe she was aiming to win some office sweepstake, so inventive were her reasons for rejecting my photos (all of which were accepted by the automated, online photo checker that they provide). First of all, the camera was too close to the subject; then there were shadows across my face; the height/width ratio was wrong; the background was too dark; and, finally, it was too blurry. Eventually, in despair because my application was going to expire, I gave up on looking nice, and sent them a picture of a woman who had run out of patience: old, sick and grumpy. This is my Friday afternoon schedulers face. Obviously this was the picture they were waiting for, as I now have my brand new passport. And this one lasts for ten years.
Friday
Romilla gets her first taste of scheduling today. I’m planning a very gradual and gentle handover so hopefully she will eventually feel quite comfortable about the whole business. That’s the point at which I will flee the country.
Thanks everyone.
Kirsty
Ps. RIP Stephen Hawking. You were one of the people that made me wish I’d stuck with cosmology (the others were either other doctors, or patients).