Recovery

It has been a difficult week. Somewhere in it, I bin sick. Proper exploding eyeballs, shiveryshakery, drop down dead bed at 5pm sick.

It must have been bad. I am told that Daddy Dig came in, took a look, then went off to cook dinner.

Lying there, wound in my sheets of sorrow, alone, listening for the knocking of the reaper, I wrote out my last will and testament in my buzzabout head. All was archangel poetic in there until it dawned on me I don't have nuffink to give away except 15 pairs of Tesco value knickers and a twelve-year cycle of depression.

So I went for the long shot instead, and took a good long sleep and 2 litres of honey-lemon water.

The next day I saw that I did not die.

Did anyone notice that? I did. I feel it is one big medalworthy achievement.

Even more of an achievement (or maybe the self-sacrificing to-the-slaughter triumph of motherhood) was that, within 24 hours of not nearly dying, somewhere in this same week I raised myself up from my death-bed and took Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to a Chemistry workshop that involved balloons.



Discovering that I was not yet dead a second time, I then bought Tiger a pair of trousers and cooked pasta pie.*

That final act, I have to say, wiped me back to square one, so off to bed I went.

But I do not know whether to congratulate myself for this week dragging myself from a death bed to fulfill a promise, or whether I should be beaten severely, since I have surely infected half of Hong Kong with my malicious virus, even now joyfully wriggling its way up the escalator handrail in the IFC.

In either case, damn me or applaud me, for the next day or two, I'm taking it easy.

*Pasta pie is this family's recipe concoction. Not recommended. It looks like vomit.