The last time I went to the health centre, I was distracted from reading a years-old issue of Vogue by a tiny bird who was really going at it with the tinted glass doors.

He would fly away a little distance then dive-bomb the glass before bouncing off to land on the handle. He kept at it for five minutes at a time, fluttering his wings pompously and tapping at the glass with his beak in desperation. Then he’d flay away and come back to do it all again.

I was starting to wonder if he was trying to get inside (birds need medical attention too) or if he was trying to get me to come outside so he could tell me he got turned into a bird by an evil magician and could I please help him to break the spell. This makes sense because my name is Robyn so of course I have an affinity for the avian species. Who else would the man-trapped-in-a-bird’s-body be trying to contact, some chick named Jane? Please.

But then I asked the receptionist about it, and she was all “Oh, it’s a seasonal thing. I think they like to play with their reflections, or they just like how the handle feels. They’re destroying the tint, though.”

Whatever.

I like my version better.