Off to the surgery to get my blood tested. The appointment is at 10.40 in the morning, so I have to set my alarm. My sleep patterns have been disturbed lately, and 10.40am is squarely in mid-morning nap territory. I do not have enough time for a bath but my hair is particularly unruly today so I smooth it down with a comb and water. I contemplate using the hairspray left here by the flat’s previous incumbent and decide against it, on the grounds that I do not want to be known in the surgery as “that old man who came in smelling of hairspray”, like some version of Thomas Mann’s Aschenbach. Death in Brighton, anyone?
This turns out to be unwise, as it is blustery out there and my hair goes from passable to mad after about five paces. Oh well. At least I still have some. The Polish nurse’s hair is a lovely, rich auburn, and in a style reminiscent of Little Orphan Annie’s. As with anyone wearing a mask these days, I concentrate now on the eyes and hair. I have been surprised how much a mask adds in terms of allure. I don’t recall the nurse being particularly attractive before but now I am not sure if I have ever seen a woman so beautiful. Certainly not in the past two weeks. Actually, it may be no more than that this is the closest anyone has been to me since I hugged the couple from the flat upstairs. (It was their idea, honest.)
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