Monday Mumbling: I Won’t Turn a Crisis Into A Drama

It’s been a day or two since I last reported on my health, and if I’m suffering, I see no reason you shouldn’t.

Those of you paying attention will know that I fell quite ill last Wednesday, since when I’ve been on an exclusive diet of antibiotics, analgesics and cigarettes. The first clears the infection, the second eases the fever, and the third, aside from keeping my temper under control, helps me cough up all the crap that the tobacco put there in the first place.

My appetites are slowly returning. I’m eating okay, I’m writing again, but the odds on my getting a legover this side of New Year’s Eve still rank it as an outside bet.

On this angle, it’s fair to say that matters took a turn for the worst on Friday when Her Indoors took Joe for a walk on her own.

Joe is a bastardised Jack Russell, with a bit of bulldog in him. He’s the size of a meerkat with the strength of a horse. Pull? He can pull better than I could when I was in me prime.

So she’s crossing the road, with Joe tugging away at his 5-metre lead, when she tripped over the kerb and fell flat, scraped both hands on the tarmac, sprained her wrist, and banged her head on the ground. I wasn’t bothered about the bump on the nut. It’d take lot more than a concrete kerbstone to get through her bone head.

However, while she is now nursing me back to good health, I’m nursing the wounds to her hands and wrist, and it’s confusing. We’re never sure who’s supposed to be doing what to whom or when he/she is supposed to be doing it. A bit like our nightly adventures many, many, MANY moons ago. In the meantime, I’m supposed to stop smoking today.

Is it any wonder the word Flatcap is synonymous with catastrophe?