Why my shirt was always tucked in while in high school

I hate needles. I dread injections. The devil has set camp in my throat. I can neither sip, swallow nor speak. I’ve contracted tonsillitis plus some funny infection, perhaps bilharzia.

I fear I might let out a war cry (or punch the lab lady in the throat) when I see the needle. I’m third on a lab queue for a blood test and your columnist is sandwiched by two ladies whom I suspect, from the discomfort in their eyes, will be required to pee in a cup! My column deadline is way overdue. So I’m typing this piece from a super app in my smooth Alcatel, feigning Batman’s composure and courage.