So today, continuing the theme for the year, the result for the PCR test I took yesterday came back positive for Covid-19.
Because, of course.
Though, hilariously, because of everything else that's already happened this year, somehow, this is the least upsetting or disappointing piece of news I've received in the past seven to eight months.
It just seems like another piece of the puzzle that is my 2021.
Thank Science, I'd already had one dose of the vaccine, so the worst of it already seems to have passed.
No thanks to all the English football fans on the Tube on Sunday shouting 'It's coming home!' at the top of their lungs. While wearing masks around their necks instead of over their massive gobs.
Even with all my obsessive hand-sanitising, masking and not touching a damned thing while commuting, I'm sure that's where I caught it. And based on my symptoms, I'd lay bets it was the much more contagious (but, thankfully, less deadly) Delta strain.
Amusingly, today, as I completed the NHS Test and Trace documentation after receiving my results, I realised I have, in fact, lost my sense of smell. Though not my sense of taste.
To confirm this, I:
sniffed heavily of my dried thyme (which has been my go-to for checking for covid previously),
stuck my nose into a large jar of peanut butter, and
sniffed rosemary and oregano in their bottles.
All registered a complete blank for scent.
Despite not having showered since leaving the flat at 11:30 yesterday to go for the PCR test, further confirmation has been provided by my apparent lack of body odour at 19:00 the next day. Anyone who knows me and knows how I sweat in 26-degree heat (yesterday's temperature), especially after walking for more than 90 minutes, knows this is a physical impossibility. My sense of smell has definitely left the building.
And, I guess, so has my shock and indignation at anything 2021 has left to throw at me.