The Adventures of L-Plate Gran: Intimations of Mortality

There is nothing like taking charge of a small baby to remind you that you are not immortal. From the moment Little G was placed in my inadequate care by You must be mad, I have had a cold, accompanied by a cough, occasionally joined by a sore throat and a hoarse voice.

Little G has the same, so we cough and splutter our way around town, occasionally stopping to share a fag (no, really - we don't). After a few weeks of this and with no sign of improvement, I plucked up courage and made a doctor's appointment. Relieved to be told I do not have lung cancer (never Google your symptoms), but surprised to be told instead that I have succumbed to 'pediatric germs'.

Apparently whatever Little G picks up in nursery she brings back and distributes generously amongst her nearest and dearest. Which also explains why You must be mad has the same thing. Our delicate immune systems are not ready for the nappy'd bugs currently attacking them. Thus we are ill. All of us. All of the time.

Once Little G develops her own immunity, and the weather becomes warmer and drier, we will be better, I was told. My quite reasonable request for a prescription for a 3 week family holiday in Tuscany was turned down. You just can't get anything on the NHS nowadays.

To be continued ...  ...