I get back at nine am ...

 ... and head for the loo, followed by both dogs, who stand waiting mournfully for me outside the door.

They have been fed, but they are reporting back they are not too happy with the quantities provided by the sous-chef and that additional rations are in order.

I'm feeling like them, having departed early for the local laboratory "à jeun" (on an empty stomach).

It takes twenty minutes to sort out the paperwork for the three prescriptions provided by the cardiologist - two sets of blood tests and a PCR test for COVID. 

The time required is not helped by the fact that my chosen "identity paper" is my passport, which is in my maiden name.  Whereas the three prescriptions are in my married name.  So we opt for my "carte de sejour" - my residency permit - which usefully has both my maiden and my married names.  This, duly, is photocopied and attached to the paperwork.

All seems well, until I get to see the assiduous young doctor (nurse?) who somewhat sternly informs me that I need a comma between my first and second Christian names, otherwise I have a double-barrelled first name.  Well that's a first in the fourteen years I've been here.  Things deteriorate further when he asks me my birthday (as a security check) and notices that the date on my residency permit says the fourth and not the fourteen, as I said.  So, I find my passport again, which confirms the fourteenth.  This requires him to disappear back to reception in order for the passport to be photocopied as well.

By now, I am beginning to feel faint with hunger.

And there are fourteen sticky barcode labels up the sleeve of his white coat as he proceeds to take seven phials of blood from my left arm, reminding me of Tony Hancock in the Blood Donor:  "A pint! That's very nearly an armful!". 

The receptionist returns with yet more papers - apparently the permit / passport double photocopying requires a different set of code numbers.  Paper is now spread all over the consulting room.  And in the confusion, the young man tells me I can go.  Reluctantly, I remind him I need a PCR test - my first.  Without it they will not let me into the hospital on Thursday for my pacemaker op.

He enthusiastically shoves the long Q-tip up my left nostril and twists it around saying "just five seconds".  Hopefully I won't need to have that happen too often! 

And hopefully all the paperwork will mean I can check the results online this evening.  The French are nothing if not efficient and thorough when it comes to medical stuff.

In the meantime, the dogs and I have breakfast - their second, my first.