I am not better.
Still, I have not died, so I felt duty bound to pick up my keyboard and scroll some lines to you.
Lucy has got it as well. She has gone back to bed in order to feel sorry for herself in peace.
I would like to go back to bed as well, but it is Clean Sheets Day, and I have taken the sheets off. They are all still steaming gently in front of the fire. I hope they have dried before tonight.
It has been a horrid washing day, because I have had to do Oliver’s sheets as well, which meant that we have had masses and masses of laundry all over the place, mostly in the house because although it has not been raining, the day is damp and chill and not the sort of day to embolden sailors to head off to discover America.
This has been a tiresome and unexpected chore, because of course Oliver is not here. He is in Bath.
The thing that happened was that emboldened by Lucy’s presence, the rascally dogs crept up to their floor. Lucy has got Jack with her and so does not want the dogs in her bed, it is already quite full enough with the two of them. Ignored and rejected, possibly with some thoughts of revenge, the wicked, wicked dogs made themselves a little nest on Oliver’s bed instead. They have made a complete and hideous mess of it. I was so cross when I saw it this morning that it was a good job my throat is too sore to shout, otherwise they would have been made very unhappy indeed. As it was I had to content myself with some glares and restrained mumblings. I am simply not well enough to indulge in outbursts of violence.
They are henceforth banned from the upstairs part of the house, probably for the rest of their lives.
Matters have not been helped along by Lucy’s cats having brought fleas with them. They have not just brought a couple of fleas, but lots, and we have had to de-flea everything. Lucy took the cats to the vet this morning for some Death To Fleas drugs, and I have fed the dogs some as well. Then we have been all over the house, hoovering and spraying and grumbling and shouting at the dogs. It is not their fault but there is no point in shouting at the cats, who will not care in the least.
It is not the cats’ fault either, obviously.
As you can imagine, this has not made for a tranquil atmosphere in which to be unwell. I am not recovered, although I am determinedly mobile, but poor Lucy has been felled like a tree with Ash Die-Back.
I took the dogs over the fells this morning, in a determined sort of way. It was a most peculiar, swimmy experience, as the world drifted in and out of focus and I had to concentrate quite hard on not falling over, but I achieved it, and afterwards felt that I could be horrid to the dogs with a clear conscience. I have been a Responsible Dog Owner.
I am going to give up with this now, it is just too difficult. I just want to add as a closing note that I have now got to Meghan Markle in Harry’s endless rambling grumbles, and I must tell you that no longer do I think he is merely a pointless whinger.
I have concluded that he is actually unhinged. Obviously I have never met the chap, and so my judgement can hardly be said to carry any weight, but if his composing of Spare was intended to introduce the Real Prince Harry to the public, all I can say is that it is a jolly good job he will never be able to be King. He is an obsessive fruitcake.
What a piece of good fortune that the other one was born first.
