It had to happen, of course. No-one can cram that much activity into so short a time without coming a cropper somewhere along the line. Unless you're Don and Lorna it seems who, on their return to Vancouver, played 18 holes of golf, after just six hours sleep. Anyway. Since the Canadians left (and Amelia went home to Sevenoaks via Bluewater) I have been as sick as a parrot, as chunderous as Queen Chunder of the Chunderous People and, quite frankly, no use to man or beast. My body, obviously reacting violently to being schlepped around Central London, decided to wave the white flag of defeat. In short, Dear Reader, I have spent the past....ooooh, roughly.....58 hours alternately pummelling my aching limbs in the power shower, lying down (with and without bucket), weeping gently because I felt so pathetic - and in my role as Chief Hypochondriac - leafing through the Medical Dictionary and groaning "I think I've got that".
I can feel (I hope) my delicate and fragile state coming to an end as tonight, at dinner, I ate something other than Galaxy chocolate (defeated, white flag waving carcasses need sugar) and didn't burst into tears when David asked me if I wanted normal tea or herbal. I even felt strong enough to read Paddington Bear to Mac without breaking into a cold sweat.
Of course I'm over egging the pudding, acting the Drama Queen and generally, as Charlie put it earlier, "getting on lots of tits" but, please....indulge me a little. I've written all about Monday at the Tower in Word and am just, in my minds eye, wandering around Harrods Food Hall with Bea hissing "do you see that Japanese woman, I've got a bag like hers but in green with longer handles and different buckles" and will post these shortly. After I've had another little snoo.....zzzzzzzzzzzz.