In the absence of a note from Mother-of-witch, I shall briefly mention the medicinal Coke.
(In other words, whereas the dog – which I don’t have – didn’t eat my homework, I am under the weather.)
A couple of years ago when Son brought some Indian gastroenteritis home and shared it generously, I decided that to avoid having to send the wellest member of the family to the shops for some Coke in times of distress, it would be a good idea to keep some at home. Purely for medicinal purposes.
So we did. We do. No need for it during the 22 months or so since that time. Until Friday morning. I was pleased to remember it. I was less pleased to remember it’s actually been stored in the cellar (like a good wine…). And I was doing the unwell home alone.
I pondered phoning the neighbours and asking if they felt like making a visit to my cellar, but in the end I came to the conclusion that the explaining might take as much out of me as that trip downstairs. So I walked down, taking great care and swearing a little and promising that in future I will store the medicinal Coke in my wardrobe. With a glass.
Have to say that I improved much more speedily once I had ingested a few mugs of the vile stuff (like medicine should be).
And whereas I’m better, I do not have the brain capacity to actually blog.