The unspeakableness of things

Let us not talk about the fact that my right hip has imploded and I have been hobbling about like an evil dwarf wife since yesterday evening shouting the classic Leicesterism ‘Ooyableeder’ quite a lot.

Let us not speak of the fact that my period has started and is vying with my hip for attention by trying to fold my kidneys through my belly button, backwards.

Let us never speak of the fact that the cat appears to have now got conjunctivitis in one eye and is squinting about like a pirate to such an extent that Tilly has actually knitted her an eye patch.

Nor that the cat broke in through Tilly’s bedroom window yesterday so that she could sit in the tortoise table with the tortoise. They were discovered in some kind of weird reptile/mammalian stand off. I suspect the tortoise of having kicked sand in the cat’s eye, which is why she now has conjunctivitis.

Nor will we speak of the fact that I will inevitably have to hobble to the vet tomorrow and it will cost me the thick end of £100 for the very great pleasure of squeezing ointment into the cat’s eye for a week. The cat who detests being picked up or petted, and who will clearly submit meekly to being put in a wrestling hold while I stick cream more expensive than rubies into her eye. HA.

We can talk about the fact that Oscar finally seems to be better. Which is fantastic.

But not that this wellness has finally meant the cessation of all and any truces between him and Tallulah which have meant that peace has reigned for nearly a month in the household, but is now a dim and distant memory as they bicker and squabble their way through every daylight hour.

And we must not speak of the fact that Tallulah has a sore throat and a cough, a week before she is due to go on the most expensive outward bound holiday in living memory, the organisation of which nearly ripped our family asunder.

SHE WILL GO ON THAT BLOODY HOLIDAY IF I HAVE TO TAKE HER ON A STRETCHER IN A HAZMAT SUIT

are my final words on the subject.

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