He Kicked Like A Mule & He Bit Like A Crocodile

This week, I have been mainly:

  • Listening to Johnny Cash, to whom I treated myself to a digital update of recently. A resplendent mixture of song and audiobook.
  • Exchanging suppressed snorts of delight with John at Harry’s increasingly lengthy (a few 6-word sentences emerging this week), endearingly deluded and uproariously pompous declarations.
  • Gurgling appreciatively at the Bronx Zoo’s escaped cobra‘s twitter account;

very injudiciously, the snake in question let himself be recaptured earlier today.

  • Being rejected, despite May‘s kind coaching, for library jobs (plural!) which paid abysmally, and for which I was overqualified. On that scale, I am not looking forward to the magnitude of a potential employer’s recoil from me if I ever apply for a well-paid, suitable position; although I admit those last two terms may be mutually contradictory in my current case.
  • Thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t wear a confederate flag bikini with beer hat outfit to interviews in future.
  • Noticing the odd, sore crusty spot behind Harry’s ear yesterday bedtime, as he began to pop a fever.
  • Welcoming a migratory, fiery little 39°+ form into our bed at 2.45am – immediately prior to cleaning the vomit out of it at 3am.
  • Dosing Harry with analgesic – first into one end; then, when the Calpol came immediately hurtling back, into the other.
  • Peering every 15 minutes since at the tiny spots that are proliferating, very slowly but inexorably, from Harry’s ear to knee.

          

(The domestic jury is still out on a formal Chicken Pox diagnosis, as all but two of his blisters are either teeny-tiny-minuscule or already crusted because he has furiously scratched them off almost before they form – but I’m confident it’s varicella. Half his nursery has succumbed to it in the last couple of weeks, plus fever, diarrhoea (which he’s had for the last two days) and vomiting are all classic early symptoms. Most of his classmates’ mothers reported barely noticeable symptoms. Once again, I feel as if Harry – and I by default – have been handed a shitty horrible piece of the stick to hold, because the poor child is still on fire and Not Well At All.)

  • Contemplating a week of Pox quarantine.
  • Rejoicing because hey! my sore throat is completely better! A belated slap on the back for that Alexander Fleming, there!
  • Discovering this morning – during a rushed 60 mile round race while John babysat Harry – that I have 3 mature follicles, another 6 that will be ripe for the plucking by the time Monday rolls around, and various others that are still in the race.
  • Widdling myself laughing at Father Ted.

Busy, busy, busy.

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