It’s humbling. We are all equal in the eye of the toilet bowl.
Big props to the offspring for looking after things while I was bedridden. There were mysterious deliveries of food, paid for with wads of cash of unknown provenance. But the ship sailed on… Somehow they all ended up in bed, and they kept me well stocked with all sorts of liquids and antacids.
I don’t know if it was flu delirium, but yesterday I murmured to Bennett, after he brought me some more seltzer and a plastic bag (just in case): “I can’t believe you’re going to be eleven next week.”
“Uh, mum. I’m eleven now. Twelve comes after eleven.”
Holy life cycles Batman. How did that happen? I haven’t been flu ridden all year – how did I miss this?
(Consequently, absolute worst thing about the flu is daytime television. My brain hurts. I can feel it shrinking.)