Going for my over-40s MOT, I realise there is one area of my life where I have lost absolutely none of my youthful vigour
Some time around your 40th birthday, you get a letter from your GP instructing you to attend an MOT, and from here on in, this letter will arrive every five years and the first time everybody definitely ignores it. The second time I got mine, it was in the middle of the first wave of Covid. Wait, the maths don’t stack up on that: maybe the second time I ignored it, again. Then perhaps the pandemic militated against being reminded by the surgery, or somehow, some way, even though it is nowhere near my birthday, and I’m neither 40 nor 45, and most certainly not 50, I got the knock. Actually, a text. Just come stand on a machine, it implored. Any time of day, no need to chat to a nurse.
I ran into my previous husband on the way in. “How come you’ve been to the doctor when I’m also going to the doctor?” I quizzed. He inclined his head, in a shorthand devised over time to indicate that this is on the list of questions you’re no longer allowed to ask once you’re divorced, along with, “What’s that big crack in your wall?”, and “Have you seen Line of Duty?”, and actually, now I’m drilling in, this list is really long. I can’t stand not being allowed to ask intrusive questions. I feel like a working dog, bred for generations to chase sheep, transported to a sheep-free environment, then told off for chasing cars.
