Biscuits save the day

The thing about making plans is that, in my limited experience, they generally don’t tend to work out the way you intended.

Things like your tiling chap over running his job, for example, which has impacted on next week’s plans already. Although that turns out to be fine, because for numerous complex reasons next week’s plans have now been binned and rearranged to within an inch of their lives. It’s a good job I am fairly relaxed about this sort of stuff. Were I the sort of woman to have everything on a spread sheet and be constantly looking at her watch, I would be three quarters of the way down a bottle of gin by now. As it is I think: ‘pfft, I shall eat another biscuit and be damned.’

It’s how I cultivate my hour glass figure. Ahem.

I got downstairs yesterday morning to find Tallulah wrapped in a blanket, shivering and looking like death warmed up. She had a raging temperature, a headache, and a sore throat. She hadn’t wanted to wake me, bless her, and had been patiently waiting for me to surface. This was a bad sign as she is generally not that thoughtful when she is not ill, so it meant I had to take the whole thing quite seriously. Curses. I am a terrible nurse, which made me feel sorry for her, and it is was already scorchingly hot, which is no time to be running a temperature, so I felt doubly sorry for her. Not that it made me any better a nurse. I am patient for about five minutes until I have thrown Calpol all over the cupboards, and then I lose the will to live.

It does not help that when I am ill I just want to be left alone to die, so I cannot understand why anyone would want to be cuddled or mithered. Luckily, yesterday, Tallulah was of a similar mind set, which meant that we didn’t fall out, and as she is not a raging hypochondriac like her brother, I didn’t have to discuss her symptoms with her fifteen times an hour whilst rapidly losing the will to live, so that was good.

I dosed her up with Calpol and texted my friend who was due to come over for a play date with her daughter. She said she didn’t mind the germs, which was nice, so Oscar got to play with his friend, and we got to drink coffee, while Tallulah, who had perked up since the Calpol started working, went away to learn to play the piano. She has been learning for a week, using internet tutorials and the power of her immense will, and she is not too bad. She can pick out recognisable tunes already. I am just grateful it is not a violin: ‘Scree! Skree! Screeeee!’

By lunch time it had all become too much for her, and she spent the afternoon sleeping on the sofa looking alternately grey and hectic depending on temperature. More Calpol meant she was able to eat her tea and chat to our friend Auntie Squirrel who had come for a cup of tea, but got to stay for tea tea because my knitting class got postponed due to the fact that it was too hot to knit or think. I was pretty distraught about the knitting class, but I could entirely see why it had to be postponed. The shop where the class takes place is quite small, and even with the aid of a fan it can reach impressive temperatures in there on a normal day. I think it’s because there’s so much wool in there. It acts like super insulation.

Tallulah faded away as evening came on us like a patient etherised upon a table, and I spent most of the night worrying that she might have the same thing as Oscar did a few weeks back. I have examined her mouth with the aid of a trusty pen torch and a lot of shouting, and it seems fine. I am keeping everything crossed that it remains so. In the meantime, Oscar woke up with a nightmare in the middle of the night and appeared at my side like a small naked ghost, looking distinctly wobbly and distrait. We sat and watched some telly for twenty minutes until he was calm enough to go back to bed, and I was wide awake and showing no signs of imminent sleepiness. I look like a raccoon today I have such impressive bags under my eyes.

We were due to go to Yorkshire Sculpture Park today with some friends for a picnic and a twelve mile trek round the Henry Moore’s. It was pretty clear Tallulah wasn’t up to it. She is less hot today, although still too hot, and so full of cold she is sounding a lot like Bonnie Tyler. I have yet to suggest she teaches herself Holding Out for A Hero on her keyboard. I am not that much of a masochist.

Today we will eat our picnic food in the garden and I will flash pictures of Henry Moore sculptures before their eyes, and it will be just as good, because we will be able to do the whole thing whilst still in our pyjamas.

And I will eat more biscuits.

2 responses to “Biscuits save the day

  1. when I was little and got ill, my parents used to mop my fevered brow, make clucking noises around me and hold my hair back and stroke my back when I was puking up. I have come to expect this from my husband, who, like you, likes to be alone when ill.

    WHY??? You could have so much luuuurve lavished on you at these times.
    Sadly, the lurve did not translate into married life and my husband said a metaphoric ‘fuck off’ and can barely manage to glance my way in disgust as I grind and thrash around in pain. Any pain is bad for me – I don’t handle it well at all.

    Totally unrelated, although still related to you – please do crochet. I taught myself with YouTube (how I love thee) and it’s the mutt’s nuts for sho. (gangsta rap – see that?) There is only one – yes ONE loop on your hook at any one time, so less margin for error. I am a thwarted knitter – one who finds extra stitches then loses a few with no apparent reason, so crocheting whole blankets is such a heart-bursting achievement.

    Any people keep saying – ‘oh you’re so CLEVER’.

    Go for it.
    And hold your daughter’s hair back while she pukes. It’s the least a mother can do.

    Fo sho.

  2. I do do the nursing thing, honestly and promisedly. I’m just rubbish at it.

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