Still battling this infernal bug. As I write this I am being driven back from Bury St Edmunds and feel like I might have mainly kicked it. But I’ve felt like this before. And I felt pretty lousy earlier on today. I fell asleep on the drive to the gig (lucky I no longer drive myself on tour) and on waking from that short slumber it felt like my body had fought back and almost won. Here’s hoping. Because this has been over three weeks of bullshit now.
Worryingly Phoebe, the scoundrel who brought this thing into our home, seemed the worst she’d been today. So maybe there’s at least one more sting in the tail.
I just want to get out running again, but currently get exhausted if I have to go up and down the stairs twice.
This might just be age.
And also my head still hurts from when I clashed heads with my daughter over a week ago. Repair yourself, you stupid body.
We had a family day, until I had to leave for the gig and had an early lunch at Wagamamas, where the waitress recognised Phoebe from previous visits and was surprised to see she wasn’t her usual cheery self. When Phoebe pointed to the kitchen and wondered what was going on the waitress kindly offered to show her behind the restaurant scenes. But Phoebe was far from sure about it all and when one of the chefs said hello she started to cry. So that little treat backfired. But she isn’t well and I am amazed how well she’s got through this month, certainly moaning a lot less than her dad who won’t shut the fuck up about being unwell.
But there’s still time for fun. And it’s great to see her comprehension and imagination developing. I pointed to a picture in her book of a lolly that had fallen into a penguin enclosure and she reached down beside her seat to fish an imaginary lolly out of an imaginary pond and pretended to lick it. Earlier at home I had mentioned the big bad wolf and Phoebe remembered playing “What’s the Time, My Wolf” at her birthday and immediately ran over to play it again, shouting out stuff that approximated to what she was supposed to be doing, but like me, not quite understanding the rules. It was fun creeping around and then running away though.
We popped to the supermarket whilst Phoebe had her nap in the pram. At the check out I stood behind a guy who was looking at stuff on his phone and not emptying his basket on to the conveyor belt. As every moment passed and the person in front of him’s stuff was going through I assumed he’d start loading up his stuff or notice that I had a heavy basket and thus make an effort to get his stuff done so I could put mine in place. But he didn’t budge. The person in front was paying for their stuff and he hadn’t started unloading yet. Who was this maniac? It was surprisingly annoying having someone refusing to play by the rules of convention. What was he playing at? He put his stuff on eventually in his own sweet time and I resisted the urge to call him a cunt. He was worse than Hitler, in my opinion.