Thunder is rumbling around outside in a very desultory fashion. It’s not really trying hard enough to work up into a storm, which is a bit rubbish. It’s just flailing about making life a little bit more difficult for everyone. It’s cold. It’s rainy, with that ‘fine rain that wets you through’ and the day is grim.
The media and everyone in the world except his mum, are still up in arms about Jeremy Corbyn, from what he had for breakfast to what his plans for Christmas are. I can’t see this dying down any time soon to be honest. He hasn’t appointed enough women to his shadow cabinet. He hasn’t given the ones he has appointed the right jobs. He has betrayed the nation again, and the women, and the readers of the Daily Mail, and the teeny tiny babies, and he only got elected on Saturday.
He’s a fast worker, I’ll give him that.
In other news, I have a stinking head cold. It’s been coming on like a nun sandwich since Friday night and yesterday really got its fingers into me. My mouth is so sore it hurts to eat. My throat is so sore it hurts to swallow and I am wandering around, frozen to the bone, swathed in blankets and nodding off like a well fed pensioner at a quantum physics symposium where the heating’s on and none of the windows open.
This is very, very sad, as my week is incredibly busy. Today for example, I was meant to be fettling the school library all day, then feeding small children, then dashing to pick Andrea up before driving to Stratford to see Henry V.
Tomorrow I am going to London to meet my friend Claire and we are going to gaze in long anticipated glory at the remarkable creature that is Benedict Cumberbatch as he bestrides the stage as Hamlet. I am driving there and back.
I also have to fit in two Kids from Acorn Antiques rehearsals, two visits to Oscar’s tutor and a child’s singing lesson somewhere in all this. As well as a business meeting on Wednesday and lunch with a friend on Friday. This does not account for all the unexpected stuff that will inevitably crop up, and the fact that I have a book to write.
This morning I woke up with the vague plan that I would only go into school for half a day. Then as I ouched my way through my breakfast, and two huge vats of coffee did nothing to make me feel either better or more awake, I decided I was being absolutely mad. I texted the head of literacy and suggested I come in on Thursday this week instead, when there is the vague possibility that I may not be ill. He gave me a big thumbs up. The school is like a petri dish at the moment, and everyone is bringing their own germs from home. I’m sure they really don’t want me to add to the mix.
Andrea texted me and indicated that she had the day from hell and did I mind not going to see Henry V because it looked like she might not be able to do it. I texted her back and said I would be delighted even though I miss her and I love Henry V, as the last thing I want to do tonight is drive for two hours in the dark and sit for three hours on an uncomfortable seat watching a play I will barely be able to keep my eyes open for.
I took Oscar to school. My friend Jen rang me to see why I hadn’t been in the playground (I had dropped him at the gates). I told her my tale of woe, and she popped round this afternoon with a huge steaming bowl of congee, which I can actually eat without crying, and which is full of good, good things for a person with a cold. Then she offered to pick Oscar up from school for me so I could remain welded to a hot water bottle.
I love her.
I am incredibly lucky that everything seemed to slide into place and that I can stay at home taking vitamin C and eating congee whilst emitting plangent moans. This will undoubtedly make me feel loads better by tomorrow when I have to be on top form. Tomorrow has to go on no matter what. Even if I have to get Claire to stick a broom handle up my back and stuff my nose with Kleenex balsam, I will be seeing Benedict come hell or high water. I might snot on him. Who knows? If I do I shall blame Jeremy Corbyn, and carry on.