There is less grumpiness in my house today. For which we are all delighted.
I am feeling less awful, so everything is less awful.
The internet works for a start, which is a fantastic state of affairs. I have tracked down all but one of my rogue parcels, and I have been to the post office, despite my fear and loathing of the institution.
Tallulah is still poorly. Grey and drawn with huge bags under her eyes and coughing fit to bust. I have kept her at home today. She is more cheerful than yesterday, mainly because she doesn’t have a splitting headache this morning, and she’s eating like a horse, so I feel a few more days wrapped up warm will do her the world of good.
Oscar’s disco went well. He came back blinged up to the nines with various pieces of glow in the dark jewellery he had invested his £2 pocket money on. When I went to tuck him up last night he was glowing, radioactively through the covers in a very troubling way.
In other news, I am deeply immersed in reading ‘Life’ by Keith Richards, and ‘The Kitchen Diaries II’ by Nigel Slater. I think that sums up my life perfectly. Although given the choice I’d rather live with Nigel than Keith, thanks. Being a Rolling Stone sounds like a right palaver, and I feel a bit edgy if I take a paracetamol and an ibuprofen at the same time, so I’m clearly not cut out for the rock ‘n’ roll life style. On the other hand I am in deepest sympathy with Nigel’s ongoing love affair with the humble potato, and I am entranced by the way he writes about food. Nigel for the win. Keith for the parties.