Me and Masks

I’ve had a bit of a cough recently, so yesterday Serkan and I decided to go get tested for coronavirus. It seemed to make sense, as at least then we could be sure we didn’t have anything more dire than the normal little coughs I get from time to time. It meant a short, these days rare, bus ride to Plumstead, serkan following on his bike. It was a quick, straightforward process involving little sticks being rammed up my nose, and we’re expecting the results to arrive soon. Nothing to worry about really, but I just wanted to note it for one thing: while on the testing site, in a tent set up on a car park, I had to wear a surgical mask like everyone else. It was my first real experience of wearing a mask because I’m usually exempt, and I now know why. That thing was a pain in my arse! It got soaked with dribble almost immediately, and was constantly slipping down over my mouth and chin so that I was forever trying to pull it back up over my mouth and nose. Within five minutes I couldn’t wait to take it off. After so many months of not having to wear one I now see why some people are so resistant to them. Mind you, other people don’t dribble so their masks don’t get so infuriatingly damp; and they don’t have to stop driving their powerchairs every few metres in order to pull their mask back up.

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