Talk to the animals...

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Mending at the grand old age of fifty five seems to take a lot longer than when I was younger.  I mean, fall over on a Friday when you're seven, and by Monday you've had a field day with a scab and your mum's replaced your tights.  

If only it were that easy now ...

As someone who finds sitting down and resting almost impossible, this week has been a most trying one.  The husband has been fantastic though, and has well and truly looked after me like a queen.  Because reading wasn't enough to take my mind off what my poor old body had endured, on Tuesday I turned to Netflix to see what I could find which might amuse me.

Having been married for some time time, I have learned to compromise where television watching is concerned, but now that I had full control of the remote, the world was my oyster.  After flicking through the copious amounts of Netflix categories (these included, 'Because you watched ******, you might enjoy.....'  Well I'll be the judge of that thank you very much, I eventually picked the entire series (three and a bit seasons)  of The Durrells.  Just what you want to see when you're stuck indoors, a lunatic family living off peanuts and surrounded by various strange animals.  Bit like here actually, but without the peanuts.

Having come into my sickbay (the lounge) for the umpteenth time in the week and spotted the beautiful Corfu sky yet again, the husband said, 'Still watching The Drivels then?  Haven't they come back to Blighty yet?'  This is what happens when you watch around twenty episodes of a programme set in the 1930's back to back.  I've taken to to saying 'What ho' at every opportunity and am considering buying a sensible pair of brogues to wear - these to be worn at a ten to two angle at all times.

I may even adopt a pelican.

Too much?

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