A couple of weeks ago my snout faced the full wrath of a French lady based in a tent about 280km south west of Paris. It was clearly a mission-driven PCR. In the name of reminding those Brexit-voting, Delta-spreading, ready-meal chomping Brits who holds the HGV driver cards, she inserted the swab so far up my nose it reached Portsmouth 48 hours ahead of my scheduled arrival. “Voilà Madame”.
Mon hooter took a banquette arrière 20 seconds later, when she shoved the official PCR / Covid info leaflet at me. Covid testing brought to the public by the Agence Régionale de Santé…. 25 years in the naming game hadn’t prepared me for this. ARS, I salute you. No pain, no name.
