When you work in hospitals it’s a compliment to call somebody else a machine. It unsettles people though if, in response, you start talking like a machine (deadpan): Hello. My name is Glen. I am a machine. Whirr-click.
Work was busy today (hence we plowed through reporting). I showed three Canadians how to do a Tim Tam Slam. I cycled home. It had rained. Dan cooked a yummy chicken, rice, broccoli and mushroom dinner and we watched Downton Abbey.
I then spent two hours filling out HR paperwork for our move back home, the same bloody forms I used to fill out every year, where I would write, “No change [in dates of my prior vaccinations and health history and tax file number]!” All hospitals are the same and so far the bench was set by Canadian immigration and the College of Physicians and Surgeons Ontario, so I just yawned at the cut-and-paste email from home and happily cut-and-paste two-fold as many PDF documents to email back. I used to watch my Aunt work in the post office and dream that one day I could grow up and stamp things as efficiently as she did. Now I see paperwork and groan.
Even Graham Norton knows how to eat Tim Tams: