This is the first day in five that I have been able to type, following a truly horrid tummy bug, care-of my delightful 16-month-old pal, Anna.
It’s funny how because babies are *always* being sick, our usual warning mechanism to avoid ill people doesn’t work, so I hugged the sickie little thing, and planted auntie kisses on her red cheeks, and since then I have been puking at a rate of knots not known since my own childhood.
Bofo has also been under the kosh, though, of course, looked after me impeccably. I am a lucky duckie.
I very much wish I could go back to work today, but every time I move, it feels as if my head might explode, and my arms and legs might break off. Stillness is the only solution, but is difficult to maintain on the 08.10 train to Farringdon.
In the last 52 hours I have eaten some toast and marmite, and little else, and now my tummy seems to be waking up, and wanting *something nice*, and these are the nice things I’ve been considering, though I probably have a boiled egg and soldiers:
And a table set with Amnesia Roses.