Goodness, where were we?

 

My invaluable cleaner Michaela came on Thursday morning. We chatted for a while. Her small son has a hernia problem, and will be seen by a specialist next week. An hour later she came to find me, pale, sweating, itching. I phoned Helen who said she’d come and drive Michaela home – then phoned back to say that a taxi would be quicker and simpler. So we did that. In the midst of all this an Amazon delivery arrived, and after that two men in masks. I don’t think they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but beyond that hypothesis I don’t know who they were. Then Archie, who found Perdita on the front step. She always rushes for the door when the bell rings, and if she gets out, counts on her devoted family to usher her back in. The system had failed.

 

After all this had calmed down, I had a blameless lunch of haddock fillet – purchased by Archie as he walked down the hill – and steamed potatoes and then developed a fairly violent diarrhoea. To which was added, yesterday, what I think might be technically called anorexia: the best I could do all day was to swallow a couple of teaspoons-ful of plain yoghurt.

 

I’ve been much better today – Rice Krispies for breakfast, half a tin of Cream of Mushroom for lunch, and I might even cook a little something for supper. I am pleasantly surprised to discover that my aged frame retains some resilience.

 

Meanwhile Michaela (back today, now much better) says she has been diagnosed as anaemic but also had low blood sugar – my own diagnosis.

 

So, no Kirkmichael yesterday. Those cats sat side by side at the inner door, not hissing at each other for once, and plainly said, “You told us we were going to Burnside today…”

 

More cruise tomorrow.