Who's the Daddy: Good to hear you’re poorly...
What with everything, daughter #2’s diagnosis of tonsillitis at the end of last week felt almost like a return to something approaching normality.
During her gap year between LIPA Sixth Form and “Big LIPA”, our youngest has been feathering her nest while gaining valuable experience working in a supermarket then a primary school doing breakfast, after-school and holiday clubs.
7am starts in December and January certainly build character: dark, freezing cold and rain, often horizontal. But if you can motivate yourself to turn up every day with a smile on your face when you’d be forgiven if you played the moody teen card once in a while then you have the world at your feet, my child.
Last week she was not her normal, cheery self. A sore throat that felt a lot worse than you’d expect from working with snot-nosed kids 25 hours a week and a trip to the pharmacist for some throat spray that didn’t touch the sides and a call to a GP later, the diagnosis was confirmed.
During the consultation, the GP asked daughter #2 to send her a picture of her tonsils so they could have a good look, which I thought was very 21st century until the penny dropped that as she was born in 2002, daughter #2 has known nothing but the 21st century. One peek down a throat that looked like roadkill was enough for the GP who prescribed a course of antibiotics and after a few days in bed, some ice lollies and chopped up melon later, daughter #2 emerged from her bedroom fully dressed last Sunday for the first time in four days.
Our cats may not do much to earn their keep around here but they are magnificent when anyone is ill. They like nothing more than lounging on your bed all day, making contented purring noises and joining in with your convalescence.
In fact the fatter and more malevolent of the pair rose in my estimation this week when he ran over to greet me on our street, saw a rival 50 yards away, sprinted after him with his dangling gut swinging from side to side and chased him down someone’s drive. Turf war, just taking care of business.