Saturday Morning With Jack Tame

The creeping pink line still fills me with dread.Every time I watch it, the viscous juice from the depths of my nasal cavity soaking up the paper, I feel a little panic as it passes the ‘T’.Is that a line? Even just a faint one? I’ll catch my breath. The liquid would soak up a few more millimetres.Kau. Karekau. Nope. No line. Nothing. Nada.When the history of this pandemic is settled and sorted, and the virus has been comprehensively studied, examined, sequenced, plotted, I’m tempted to imagine scientists facing one last great mystery: How the hell did Jack Tame not catch Covid?Honeslty, no one’s more suprised than me. Since the start of the Omicron wave in New Zealand, I have been on more than a dozen flights. I’ve travelled internationally. I’ve MC’d two funerals, which, despite Covid restrictions, are the sort of huggy-and-criey environments where people end up getting closer than they should if pandemic management is the only concern.I’ve been in two workplaces. And although the people who sit literally r