Jul. 17th, 2017

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It was one of those awkwardly wet days; in trying to jam something into one of my pockets I had managed to cut my thumb. My hands are soft, you understand: when the Revolution comes it will be evident by my silky palms that I am not a Worker.

My thumb was bleeding, and I was sitting on the tram on the way to the bus for the airport, and I was staunching the flow, or rather dabbing away the single droplet, with a bit of paper napkin from Pressbyrån. The lady sitting opposite me reached into her bag, and once she had switched to English, offered me a sticking plaster. She had Elastoplasts in her bag! Fancy that. Praktisk.

So I thanked her and put the plaster on, and thanked her again, and in response, what with limited language, etc., she gave me that internationally recognised ‘thumbs up’ sign. And so I made the same gesture in response with my freshly plastered thumb.

At which she giggled a bit, then a bit more, pretty soon she was giggling quite a lot. And then she got it under control for a moment, but from there until Drottningtorget all I had to do was catch her eye to set her off again.

She might have been laughing at the visual joke of the plaster on my thumb, or straight up laughing at me, but I'm past caring about that. It was worth cutting my thumb for it.


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