He’s much better now, sounding stronger each time he wakes. Nothing so good as soup and sleep for a nasty upset. I’ve been sleeping in sympathy, waking when I hear him stir and doing the “Is there anything I can get you” act until, now, on Wednesday evening, he’s tired of it. Still doesn’t want to eat much of anything but if the improvement continues I’m content that he’ll not need to go to the doctor tomorrow, running the risk of catching something really nasty.
Trouble is, of course, that coming so soon after a nasty dose of ‘flu you do tend to over-dramatise. Well, he does. I just panic.
Dolly has spent most of her time on the bed with him, snuggling up and purring when he wakes. She’ll be in need of a major comb-and-brush job when she comes off nurse duty.
Me, I’m sitting here sipping a glass of Chilean sauvingnon blanc and girding up my wotsists ready to collect up all the crappies, dump it in the wheelie bin, and wheel the whole lot out to the kerb. The bottle box will just have to wait for next week, and serve ‘em right for not providing a wheelie bin for glass. The planet won’t be in any worse state if, next week, the guys have to tip two week’s worth of bottles and jars into the truck. I shall just have to hope that the Danish govt. doesn’t read this and send a squad of their baton-wielding politzi over to teach me an environmental lesson. Something strange is happening over in Copenhagen, and I don’t much like the sound and smell of it.
Hey ho. Better stop now before some well-meaning soul decides to tell me off for speaking of things of which I have no knowledge or experience, and I never did like being reminded that there’s a war on, not even back in the 1940s:
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