ghing and spluttering since Saturday mid morning and am well and truly feeling sorry for myself. David has ordered me to keep my distance until I'm less contagious (but has been forcefeeding me hot lemon and honey), all three dogs are sulky and snappy with each other because they all want to be the one to "protect" me and Mac is too caught up with his performance to do anything other than keep opening boxes of tissues for me. In my sneezy, eye bleary state they're very tricky.There's a lot of it going round said Charlie when she volunteered to go to the rehearsal this afternoon. Marjorie reckons that "it's the time of year for bugs". Frank is itching to get busy with the Vicks Vaporub and keeps offering to "whizz round". Bea has suggested that I have a nasal lavage (something that I think was suggested to Mary during her recent illness) and that she knows "the perfect precious lady to do it darling". My comments to all of the above were varied.
Personally, I think this is revenge. My body has hit me with a virus because I had the temerity to throw it into a state of confusion by giving it my all on the dance floor, scaring several consultants with my bared cleavage and bellowing the words to Tiffany's "I think we're alone now" at the top of my voice.
I'll get my own back one day.
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