Getting tested.
A runny nose, a sore throat, a global pandemic, a state wide lockdown, made me call the hospital to book a Covid test. It was organised within two hours.
Followed the instructions. Drove to the local hospital. Parked in the loading zone. Gave the call to the nurse. Waited in the car.
Watched tennis on my phone. Ash Barty “reigning supreme in a tactical masterclass”, channel 9 commented.
Within twenty minutes, covered with many layers of PPE, Elsa had arrived. Explained me the process. The throat. The nose. The self isolation. The result. Within 24 hours, through a call. Or maybe a text.
So here we were. Two migrants, briefly meeting on a hospital car park, one from the Indian subcontinent, one from France, one testing, one being tested, and it occurred to me that so many of the frontline workers are migrants.
The nurses, the quarantine hotel workers, all ready and accepting. To be on the front line. Get the blame when things go wrong. Little or no reward for all that goes right.
As for me, l was left feeling very grateful for the very low numbers and the different levels of society that produced them.
Waiting now for the probably negative result, I will settle myself at home.
And hope I am not the one migrant that brought Covid into town.