I don't really understand why all these officials and bureaucrats and form-fillers won't just leave me alone and let me get on with what I'm good at, but there you go. Today I had to do several of the things I'm really bad at, including talking to a doctor and filling in forms. This was the compulsory health check associated with the green-card application. I survived it, which was pretty much everybody's plan; but they filled me with tetanus and whooping-cough vaccine, and took five tubes of my blood to see what else they need to give me, up to and possibly including a chest X-ray if I'm vulnerable to TB (which actually I rather think I am: everybody had a BCG at school, but when I went to St Andrews they tested us again and told me that it hadn't taken and I'd need another, only then I left so never got it) (see above, under "not good at going to the doctor") (besides which, I'm an English novelist: of course I must have TB, it's practically in the job description).
Then I had to write them a check, which all felt very weird; and now I want a drink. But I've been wanting a drink since 11.00am, and now it's 3.00pm; if I could hold off this long, I can hold off till 5.00, which is my regular sun/yard-arm interface.
In more of the same news, my arm is quite sore, actually. But I refuse to feel sorry for myself; I leave that to the cats, poor darlings, entirely surrounded by a California they can't quite reach. They are disgruntled with this state of affairs, and keep trying to change it. Sometimes they try inveiglement, sitting by the doors and looking irresistibly cute and expectant; sometimes they try a mad dash, or digging through the windows, or picking irritatedly at the insect screens. So far, Mac's made it out once, but barely beyond the doorstep before he was overwhelmed by the bigness of the world and suffered himself to be picked up and returned to his proper kingdom. This has of course not stopped him trying.
I also want to be outside all the time. I want to fling down my whitewash-brush, cry "Bother writing spring-cleaning!" and be off to find Ratty and adventures.
Which is actually more or less what I have done, come to think. And I am about as unexpected, as unlikely an adventurer as Mole; I just hope I come out of it as well as he does in the end.
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