The imaginary week of Olivier Véran

Monday February 8

Almost a year. Within a full week, I have been Minister of Health for a year. As much to tell you right away, it is like for the cold snap, there is the real temperature and that felt. Well there in felt duration, I am closer to a small war of one hundred years than to one of the six days. So good, I could have gone and bought myself a little candied fruit cake before 6 p.m. to celebrate, but since you can’t blow out your candles and no one wants to end up with cake crumbs in your disposable mask , I said to myself that we had to mark the occasion differently. And for a long time. And in Melun. Yeah, I know, the last part of the concept is kinda weird.

Hosting a celebration in Melun is a bit like relying on the state to act quickly and effectively on climate change. It is not won. Or like hoping that a year goes by without Patrick Balkany is not indicted. Downright cotton. Suddenly, I opted for a solution that has proven its worth, especially on the internet, and more widely since the dawn of time: I undressed in front of cameras, and with the nipple almost as apparent as the political maneuver, I got vaccinated. And I didn’t even have pain.

Tuesday February 9

It only took a single dose, barely a few seconds and poof, France was immediately prone to the syndrome of marveling at the bevel cut of my body rather than focusing on the shortage. doses of vaccines to develop antibodies. The RNA has a message for them from me: chuis gaulé like a Greek god, and mass vaccinations are postponed indefinitely of the same nationality.

The sight of my semi-naked body gave the French men and women the same little warmth under the skin sweater as at CNews when they learned thatEric Zemmour was thinking more and more about running for the presidential election –And not just in the morning when he shaves with his manly man’s hair cutter that we are trying to replace, except on TV. Putting him at the head of a country is an idea as intelligent and doomed to success as continuing to appoint only men at the head of institutions where, like a nasty gastroenteritis, spreads the virus of sexual harassment and that, just as contagious, of the law of silence.

But back to my pecs. Are beautiful, eh? Some would say that love floats in the air, between two or three micro-droplets of saliva badly blocked by masks worn under the nose. Moreover, while waiting for the hypothetical reopening of the terraces, for catching now, the best is to go shopping. I don’t know if this is a side effect of the vaccine, but I think we’re really going through a great time.

Wednesday February 10

So I admit, I was a little disappointed today when I discovered the list of nominees for this year’s Caesar. Not because Isabelle Huppert is not in it (even if honestly it is a bit of a sign that the apocalypse is not for a long time or in any case that everything is going to hell), nor even by the absence of criminal record of the directors appointed (although by March 12 and at the rate of the epidemic of revelations, nothing would really surprise me).

No, what disappointed me, very disappointed, is that neither my pectoralis major nor my left triceps fall into the category of male hope. You have to believe that the cinema, that has changed too, and that it is no longer useful to take off the shirt to succeed. Am disappointed as a guy who would have invested in 800 pallets of transparent visors just before the High Authority of Health came to say that it was useless. Or like a young person, who, in the heart of a winter of food aid and suicidal thoughts already saw himself jiggling at Solidays… He is right my boss who coughs almost more, it’s hard to be 20 at the moment.

Thursday February 11

You have to admit that for a year now, I haven’t been doing the simplest job in the world. I regret a little the time when I was on guard, scrutinized MRI speckled like Pollock, and laughed with my colleagues from the proctology department on the imagination of the French. But I must admit that I am not the worst off and when I observe them, I believe that my compatriots are now in a state where no more object in any hole seems to entertain them.

Unfortunate consequence of the absence of artistic, cultural and social life, they are now forced to change their minds by watching, as they choose, Jean-Luc Mélenchon trim the fat with Hanouna on C8, or a late-night slow-paced duel between Marine Le Pen and my colleague with an unlimited plan on the public service, Gérald Darmanin. It’s still nerd: while everyone is wary of the Covid-19, no one pays attention to the plague or cholera. And there for once, no country has started to work on a vaccine.

Friday February 12

Soon the weekend, and soon time to go buy myself some new shirts with pre-cut sleeves. It would be important to remember that the day of the second dose will come much faster than a redesign of fundamental rights of migrants around Calais. When the president advises to air the room, I don’t know if he thinks he will be listened to with such zeal. It is true that confiscating a tent or a sleeping bag when it feels like a temperature of -15 ° C is rather not bad as a draft. There were barrier gestures, the French police launched into the barbed wire lockers.

Not sure that the ARS validate these effects of cold, since the Moselle, not called the Eastern Bahamas, currently sounds like a bad fusion cooking event in an episode of “Top Chef.” “So I went on a containment revisit by snacking on the South African variant and twisting it all with a tempura from Brazil. It crunches a lot under the palate, for those who still have taste it is rather a pleasant moment in the mouth. “ And for those who have the impression of eating cardboard boiled for months, good news: tonight is the party of your ears with the Victoires de la musique. Without audience. Watch out for otitis.

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