COVID-19, DAVID-40.

I'm delighted to say that, after just under two years of trying, I'm the proud owner of a little Covid in the country.

Scan the QR code for a short clip of me inserting a swab in a cavity of my choice.
Having those two red lines pop up so quickly was the scratchcard win I'd always dreamed of, and a result that the Government's PCR test-analysing scientists confirmed for me today. It's either that or I'm pregnant. You do wee on the little gubbins, don't you? That's why they call it lateral flow.

The good news is I'm currently not feeling too bad, aside from a sore throat and general tiredness, which is pretty much my natural state. And obviously, my first thought was to show a wanton disregard for social distancing by driving to the nearest castle (that's apparently in Walkern, and no doubt haunted by a ghost called Christopher, who dances around the grounds to the club-singing bark of present-day Elton John). And I licked anyone who got in my way. The pandemic's over because Boris said so, so let's party like it's Lockdown No. 1.

I wonder if nuclear annihilation's worse with an acute respiratory illness. I don't know what to Google first.

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