Due to staff holidays, today was the first tissue collection for three weeks. But two samples yielded nothing. So I still can’t get on with that probably unnecessary extra experiment, which, in my paranoia, I’ve lately decided is necessary, in the hope that it will placate a recalcitrant reviewer.

And there was a sign pointing to the lower floor, which read, ‘Morbidity and Mortality Meeting.’ Feck! Better keep away from that one.

And we get an E-mail this morning, informing us of the date and venue of this year’s Xmas lunch, and inviting us to inform, by the end of the month, the precocious organisers of our menu choices from the copy attached to the door of the Lab Manager’s office. Which it is – adorned with a bit of green tinsel. In August! Outrageous!

And by the end of next month I’ll be numerically a year older, and we’ll have moved from two-thirds to three-quarters of the way through this one. And it’s looking less likely I’m gonna meet my Expectations.

It’s at times like these that I’m inclined to quote the last line of The Commitments.