Friday morning, to be precise. About 1am. When Tiger suddenly takes a dive for the worst. Her temperature soars to that of a glass furnace and she starts rambling about rabbits, possibly eating her toes.
Everything would be under control by 1.15am with some of that pink fluid called Calpol if it were not for Mummy Grit and Daddy Dig, aka Laurel and Hardy, crashing about under the eaves looking for the medicine box before arguing about best before dates, then taking to the bedrooms waving sick buckets at the distressed patient and arguing about the amount of pink fluid you can fit in a spoon. Poorly Tiger endures all of this and more, including the spilt water and lights shining in her eyes until 2am, when Laurel and Hardy trip over each other on the way out of her room and she can get in some proper recovering kip without the pantomime.
Come 7am, things don't get much better when Shark wakes up*, fresh and bright as a daisy and declares it is Tiger's naming day so we are all going to have fun. Mummy Grit, who is going to die through sleeplessness thanks to her ongoing ministrations to the sick, suggests Tiger's naming day might be better done some time else and she is not cooking cake. This sends Shark into a downward spiral of moaning misery from which she does not emerge until 4pm when I force her to go sailing so my ears can have a rest. Squirrel wisely keeps out of the way and occupies herself cutting up bits of paper to form a Saxon helmet.
And so, miserably, moaningly and sickly, Friday passed.
* Shark survives on nine hours sleep a night. Is that normal? She has never done twelve, never ever ever, despite the assurances of the health visitor who said that babies sleep twelve hours a day and will probably need ten hours at least while growing up. The woman should be struck off. Twelve has only been possible with drugs and vodka.
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