Peter, continued continued

 

Sitting here tucking into a much needed glass of champagne-equivalent.*  Peter is better, but still terrifyingly feeble.  I'd been dithering about ringing the out-of-office doc service again all day.  He'd slid far enough toward decaying vegetable matter by evening that I decided I wanted the comfort of a professional voice on the other end of a phone line even though I had no symptoms to offer except extreme weakness . . . which could all be down to the fact that he's not eating. ...