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. Daughter—let’s call her Superba—and I have been running relays of dainties to tempt the invalid appetite to no great effect.** So I had a long chat with the latest soothing, thorough medical person*** this evening—ending with her concurring that unless anything changes waiting till tomorrow to ask for a house call is sensible and rational—and went upstairs to find Superba beaming in an entirely justified fit of smugness because Peter had just eaten an entire BOWL of the kedgeree Superba had made. Yaay. Okay. I’m still calling the doc tomorrow. Morning. You know, the normal end of the morning. Eight-thirty say. Shudder. Well, maybe nine.
The substantial grandson had to go back to university today, but Superba is staying another night, and then I have Alastair† coming tomorrow as she puts on her power suit and blazes off to corporate affray. Alastair can stay two more days, by which time I hope (a) Peter might be beginning to stagger around on his own†† and (b) I have some home help arranged.
And . . . I’m so tired hellhounds may have to sleep in the bed with me, because I can’t see out of both my eyes long enough to haul their bed up the stairs. I don’t dare leave them downstairs or they may try to join Superba on the sofa. . . .
* * *
* Prosecco. I used to hate prosecco. Then they learnt how to make it. This isn’t only me, you know. Lots of people drink prosecco now who would have preferred ditchwater^ in an earlier era.
^ Or Lipton’s. As per the fabulous Mr Malki. In case you missed it last time:
** This is another occasion where I declare: do not quack to me about the wisdom of the body or I may grow violent.^ A frelling wise body would know that when it’s feeble from illness but attempting to drag itself into convalescence it frelling needs to frelling eat.
^ Montresor+ missed a trick really. A much more fully satisfying revenge would have been to wall Fortunato up with a lifetime supply of diet Coke and Pringles.
+ http://classic-american-fiction.suite101.com/article.cfm/the_cask_of_amontillado_summary
*** Superba has been pointing out that how well the system works does vary a lot from area to area and specific instance or medic to specific instance or medic, but I have nothing but accolades for the out of office service this weekend in the south of England.
† You remember Alastair. Alastair was here for a couple of totally unnecessary days when Peter had his nasal surgery which was supposed to knock him down and didn’t. No, no, we had to wait for the stealth missile last Friday.
^^ Or at least clear-headed enough to stay where he’s put. Last Friday I had to bolt out to get his prescription filled. I left him on the sofa. I said, promise you’ll stay on the sofa. Mmm, he said. Promise, I said. I promise, he said. I got back fifteen minutes later to find him lurching deliriously around the kitchen. This weekend has been so much fun.
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