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Getting better...

The husband seems to have turned a corner.  I left him in bed this morning complaining of the headaches which the antibiotics had given him.  I should say that this had nothing to do with the involuntary headbutting of the vacuum yesterday, and I said to him that they were probably because he'd not been drinking enough.
Naturally, this was pooh-poohed, as was my suggestion that he was detoxing after four caffeine-free days.  Now I'm no doctor, as you all know, but you ask me anything about headaches and migraines and I have a myriad of information up my sleeve.
He peaked around 10.00 with a call to Binland asking me to stop at the shop on the way home to pick up some Evian ('I can't stand the taste of the tap water anymore, and the fridge is too noisy') and he also wanted me to pick up a new prescription from the surgery after a short con-flab with the doctor.
Handing them over to him when I got home (at this point he was still looking like a crumpled bag of dirty was…
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Open up your door...

The husband did enough of a Lazarus to open the front door while I was at Binland today.  It was just as well, as it was the lovely gentlemen who'd come to fit my log burner.  I suppose that the husband must have weighed up in his mind the pain of getting out of his sickbed compared to what he might have to endure had he not opened the door.  Sensible man.  
I'd already decided that if I'd come home today to find that the fitters had gone away as no one had answered the door, then the husband would have been woken up by me carrying a length of hosepipe and a watering can, muttering something along the lines of 'well the doctor said an enema might help'.
But by the time I got home today, the husband had the log burner on the go, and was sitting on the sofa sweating like a turkey on Christmas Eve and stating that he thought he'd overdone it.
Well I had warned him ladies.  'Don't overdo it today', I said to him.  Did he listen?  Of course he didn't.  …

Bad medicine...

In the famous words of Michael Caine in The Italian Job...'You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off'...
Such has been my life this past couple of weeks.  Let me give you an example.  I went to the doctor two weeks ago, looking for a cure for my crippling migraines.  All I was expecting was a prescription and some headache free mornings.  What I wasn't expecting was to turn into a foul mouthed harridan who became extremely aggressive to any poor soul who has happened to cross my path.
This week, this has included a local fox hunt (don't even get me started on that again, I've just about calmed down)  three ladies who were trying to coax me onto some march (I was on my way to breakfast, and nothing, but nothing gets between me and my waffles on a Saturday) and my internet (fully justified actually).
The doctor did as I hoped and scribbled out a prescription for a tablet which he felt should do the trick, but before handing it over to me, he said that he had…

Rat race...

Oh life....
Will you just bugger off and leave me with a mere five minutes to sit quietly with a cup of tea while the rest of the world passes me by at a rate of knots.
You know that NASCAR racing that they do in America?  Racing round in circles, foot on the throttle, eyes front until some numpty flaps the old chequered flag?  Well today, my lovely friends, that has been me.
Binland, surprise audit, dog walking, oven cleaning, Pilates, chilli nachos, Colin Caterpillar, candles, Waitrose, etc etc etc.  Add in the husband's birthday tomorrow (this explains the Colin) and I have met myself coming back on at least three occasions this afternoon.  Actually, one of these times was in Pilates and completely intentional, so I can't really count that one, but all in all, it's been a very stressful few hours since I crawled out from underneath the old 12 tog.
Why is life like this sometimes?  I know that I'm partially to blame.  As the old song goes, 'I'm just a girl who ca…

Swing low, sweet chariot...

There has been an element of cobweb removal around here today.  Not literally, although looking up at my bathroom ceiling this morning at a family of eight legged beasties fuzzy little home, I did thank the patron saint of home cleaning (St Flash of Multipurpose) that Lady H was 'doing my upstairs' this week.
No, these cobwebs were virtual ones, liberally festooning the inside of the husband's head and living in perfect harmony with some fuzzy ducks after a heavy day and night at Twickenham watching the rugby yesterday.
He'd gone with some of the children, and earlier in the week, I had warned him that they were bound to lead him astray on the Guinness front, and that he needed to be careful that he didn't end up completely inebriated.  'There's no chance of that ever happening', he bragged, 'I can drink any of them under the table'.  All this was said as he slipped on his pyjamas and got into bed, and I wondered if these words might come back to …

Slow me down...

It seems a lifetime since we were here last.  I'd love to tell you that I've been ensconced on some far flung tropical isle without WiFi, or taking part in the latest commercial venture to the moon, but these would be lies of whopping proportions.  Truth of the matter is that on Sunday, I fell headlong into one of the worst migraines I've ever had.  A couple of days in bed, shielding any gap in the curtains with a vampire-type 'The light!  The light!' wail, I finally succumbed to an hour's wait in the doctor's surgery for some suggestions.
We covered the usual stuff...
'Chocolate?' 'Not eaten it since 2015'
'Wine?' 'One glass in the past two years'.
'Cheese?' 'Don't like the stuff'.
And then....
'Oranges?'
What?  My favourite fruit?   The one which I reach for at least three times a day?  
So I am now officially orange-grounded, and my life will be the poorer for it.  Mind you, I suppose it could have been wo…

Bad weather blues...

So it's back to earth with a bump.  Robocop is currently strimming the lawn prior to the year's first foray out with the mower, and there's no food in the fridge.
I was missing for just twenty four hours.  A whole day and night with daughter number two with both of us being massaged and fed, and generally being treated like a pair of princesses.  There is something quite liberating about being able to wear a dressing gown all day in these places.  For a start, you don't need to breathe in, except for those brief moments when a dunk in the jacuzzi is required.  Even when you go for your treatments, you are allowed to shed the dressing gown in private, and the therapist doesn't come back into the room until you've heaved your bulk onto the massage table and covered yourself  up with various towels.
Of course, there is the problem that when clothed, your waistband will let you know when enough is enough where food is concerned.  But in the dressing gown?  There'…