I tell you what’s worse than taking a test: waiting for the results. I don’t know why I expected them early (Matthew had told me 72 hours) but for some reason I thought I’d know by breakfast today. Nothing so far.
What this means is that I’m now self-isolating, until officially told that I don’t need to.
The park looks more tempting than ever. I think the daffodils are about to bloom, and already the bare trees look much happier waving in the sunshine. The kids are making the most of the end of half-term - I can hear them whooping from the play area. Soon the grass will burst green under the blue sky, the weak sun will turn with all the warmth of spring, while the wind caresses the coatless and the carefree, sitting among the buttercups.
“Next time, let’s not pray for patience,” joked Sammy on the phone, referring to something I’d said a few weeks ago. Fair enough. Waiting is hard work sometimes; it prevents you from making a plan, it reminds you that you can’t control the world or its timing, and it pushes you into a rhythm that is definitely not on your terms.
What’s clear is that until I know for sure, there’s nothing I can do other than remain indoors waiting for my phone to ping with a text message.
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