I hope you appreciate the pain and suffering I am going to in order to post this blog. You do? Good, I should jolly well think so. It wouldn’t be so bad if I only typed with two fingers, but having mastered a sort of almost-touch-typish-kind-of-method I am suffering immensely. The middle finger and fourth fingers on my right hand are significantly impaired, firstly by excessive wielding of a sewing needle in the vicinity of some very tough materials, and secondly by a slight error of judgement in holding my hand over the spout of the kettle while pouring the boiling water into my cup. Yes, I know that was a rather foolish thing to do, but you might be polite and sympathetic enough not to mention it.
I’ve had a good day with Smudgelet today. Haven’t seen much of him, mind, and did have to threaten to amputate his tongue if he was so intolerably cheeky (shame it was such funny cheekiness that I was unable to maintain a straight face). But he held a chicken today. This was the good bit. Oh, and the other good bit was the arrival of my knightess in shining .. er.. blue fleece. Yes, with Dad AND my sister AND my bestest friend all ill and my other sister unable to come because of work, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the wonderful Melangell whose name cannot just by coincidence include the word “angel”. She arrived at lunchtime to share in the sitting either next door or with the Smudgelets.
Dad has been incredibly ill today – but it’s been yet another case of the Comeback Kid. This morning he was clearly entering into his last chest infection… to the extent that the professionals have today signed the paperwork for Continuing Care. (This means that he is deemed to be in the last eight weeks of life and thus all care expenses will be met by the state). He was virtually comatose, unable to respond to me or help in any way as I lifted or turned him, unable to focus and distinguish hallucination from reality. The carer and I bedbathed him between us and gave up on any hope of getting him dressed and off to day centre. He has slept virtually all day. But with two doses of antibiotic inside him, he seems more compos mentis and certainly able to bear his own weight, to digest some complan, and to talk to me about how he feels.
As for Tiddles – why, oh why, can’t he just say that he’s worried about his grandad? Why do we have to go through bad behaviour and violent tantrums just to get to the point where he breaks down and cries? I felt his determination to phone the police and accuse me of not allowing him to go out with his mates and insisting on him doing his homework was assured of having me prosecuted for child abuse….. It took only an hour of holding him for him to break down and talk to me. Thank you, Tiddles… that’s a few bruises for my collection. Worth it, though, kid, for the depth in which we were able to talk. How about next time we bypass the tantrum stage and go straight for the hug?
As for the gerbils. Honestly, you stupid creatures, can you not realise that if you DO nibble through the chain securing the ladder to the top of the cage, you will simply fall off? And can you not realise that if you DO totally destroy your drinking bottle, you will subsequently become very thirsty until I am able to purchase a replacement? And can you not understand that if I am lying on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet and with my head on the pillow, I have forgotten to put your cage in the hall because I’m too tired and would appreciate it if you stop partying quite so loudly!