I’m sat here planning a journey again: tomorrow, heading up north, 150 miles there, 150 back. I’m sat here feeling ill again: a cold, traceable to a client meeting I didn’t want or need to go to. Sometimes it feels like I do most of my UK travelling when I’m ill. I think it’s just that I do most of it in the winter months.
Yesterday I came home late from another client meeting I ditto etc, and started to feel the collapse late in the evening. K. even made me a second paracetamol drink at 2.30am, shortly after cleaning up catsick from the bedroom floor. Now that’s love. This morning I’ve felt a little spaced most of the day, but I think I’m gradually recovering. I even managed to run out in the sudden hailstorm earlier to rescue some plants.
This particular journey has been prompted by the fact that Grandad has had a fall again—apparently fine, but—and my parents are too far away in Spain; meanwhile my auntie—herself recovering from a hip-op—can’t be ferried to Grandad’s nursing home by her son—himself recovering from multiple hernia surgery. We’re all of us falling apart; the family cannot hold. And I’m driving because of the short notice and no lifts, but I’ve just discovered it’s meant to start snowing mid-afternoon, rather close to our destination.
Wish us luck. And Lemsip.