:: Call Me Florence Nightingale

Someone in my house has been unwell. A male person. I will not reveal their name to protect their privacy… and also because they might throttle me. Suffice to say that they have been unable to move about for several days. This is sad, isn’t it? Sad for them because they feel yick and unwell. Sad for them because they can’t do the things they normally do. Sad for them because they have to have lots of baths to try and feel better. Sad for them because they can mostly only lie in bed in their jim-jams eating snacks and watching good stuff on the iPad.

I don’t know if you know this, but it’s really, really sad for me too. I think it’s actually sadder for me. I have to tip toe around. I can’t blast the hair dryer when I want to do my new hairdo. I can’t get up and joyfully throw open the curtains on a lovely new day. I can’t get in the bathroom when I want to because of the ‘lots of baths’ thing. For several days.

Sigh. I can’t get on with my normal things because I have to make room for the unwellness. It’s terrible really. It’s making me slammy. I’m slamming doors. I’m slamming drawers*.  I’m slamming Butternut Snaps.

Don’t you think it’s sadder for the well people in the house? I totally do. Poor me.

For several days.

x Pip

 

*I’m slamming drawers quietly as I extract my undies and the like and tip toe somewhere else to get dressed, lest I wake the ill person. (For several days..)