CECILIA HAGEN: The subtitle was: Right for you, you bastard!



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You have time to think hard while the case is ongoing.

Hope I don’t hit the skull, I thought. Y: snoop if it all ended like this. And that I can distance myself from reading another chapter of “My Uncle the Magician” for the little one tonight, whatever happens.

That way I fell to the ground and in the next second at least two gentlemen were there to rescue me and if they hadn’t done it I would have been lying, a little sprawled, deeply humiliated, in rags of smoke.

The caption was: right for you, you bastard!

He had received me with the left side of my body. A perfect upper arm fracture up high that will heal no matter how I behave, but if I neglect physical therapy I can become stiff in my shoulder and then I have to blame myself. Said the grumpy doctor in the suburban emergency the next day. The subtitle was: right for you, you bastard!

It only took an hour there, wait time, X-rays, short calls, all included. So you have to admit that it is difficult to flirt with the doctor and he may have had an argument with a family member earlier in the day.

But since then I have also been quite angry. I’ve been sitting in front of a screen most of the time and muttering stomach acid into the air. I guess I don’t care one iota who gets the Nobel Prize for literature today, although I’m still a bit curious. But the award has lost its shine and magic and depends not only on all the shame of the Swedish Academy, but at least to the same extent on this exhausting virus that shuts up almost everything. Even good food doesn’t taste good anymore, and it’s getting slower and harder to figure out what this week’s home delivery should contain at the store.

Be thankful that there is still no shortage of anything, I grind for myself and order another pack of popsicle sticks via email.

After an overdose of Trump and his illness, I switch from CNN, where all the beautiful presenters are completely open to the presidential country, to local SVT news and I am almost enthralled when the news anchor says “Get over”. It’s not called that, I scream and wave my broken left arm so hard I almost fainted, it’s called “overcome”, this is a new language virus that is becoming as contagious as it is flawed “where”, I can not stand it. And then angrily I emailed producer Geronimo Åkerlund, whose first name of Indian chief has always fascinated me. It means “The one who yawns”.

A little later, I’m about to send something at least as annoying to Henrik Dorsin, says area instead of aria in the announcement of the next Scalarevyn, which I will probably never be able to participate in.

This is not how it can continue.

Now I take a mixed fist of alvedon and ipren, order ingredients for a melanzane alla parmigiana from the store, cook it with love and enthusiasm as a dinner for my daughter and myself, suppress the world situation and then sit with an open and enthusiastic mind to participate in everything related to this year. laureate in literature.

I hold and hold, keep my distance and wash my hands. Forever, amen.

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