Woke with what seemed great difficulty from a dreadful dream of drowning. Dolly was furious to have her sleep so rudely disturbed so I scriggled her tummy and slipped out of bed to go make myself a hot drink and settle in front of the computer to watch missed documentaries on the BBC iPlayer. [I hate the way they stick 'i' in front of anything technical these days, though I suppose it's better than 'e'.]
Three hours or so later I pulled myself together, and dragged back to bed.
“Oh. Have you been somewhere?” Dolly seemed to ask, shifting over with considerable reluctance.
“Rude bloody cat,” I said, and dropped off quick as a brick from the top of a tall building. This time I seemed to stay safe in a dead, dreamless state, waking at 07:55 when Graham called to see if I was awake yet.
He got me a little worried yesterday, saying he felt tired and throaty. I told him I would, at the drop of a hat, jump into the car and fetch him home if there was any hint of his being sick.
It’s a threat that almost always works, this time being no exception. He’s fine.
But, all in all, a melancholy morning, being wet and rain-swept. Seeking a bit of fresh air I went for a short wander round the garden between showers. Mr Rusty, all wet and glistery, peered out at me from under the rampant shrubbery. If I were inclined to give a voice to cast iron garden ornaments I’d probably say he was demanding to be brought in.
No such luck. He’s far too heavy for me.
Wet and heavy
