Retrospect eh? It always knows everything with crystal clear precision. It’s just a pity that it doesn’t turn up before you do something. Like today.
I woke up feeling much improved and I really wanted to go to work so I made Mirinda a cup of tea, took the girls to Sue and headed off for Woking. Apart from a runny nose, strange sore throat and very torturous cough, I didn’t feel that bad. I even met Kirsty on the way and we chatted about our mutual plumbing problems with London flats.
I commiserated with hers as it’s yet to be fixed meaning that someone has to be on hand to empty buckets full of water from under her sink in order to stop it raining in her downstairs neighbour’s kitchen. For someone with an almost constant drip, she seemed uncannily cheerful. I’d like to think it was seeing me…
Anyway, all was well. I plugged myself in and managed quite a bit fruitful research which included the discovery of the amazingly named Balaclava Smallbones.
The transcriber had assumed that Balaclava was some sort of nickname and added that it might be a chap called Frederick Smallbones or Fred. But he had it the wrong way around. Old Balaclava went to war and was called Fred by his mates but he was baptised Balaclava. Just like his brother who was baptised Sebastopol Smallbones.
I’d love to say that I found out more delicious details about this amazing family but apart from a father whose middle name was Inkerman, I have yet to make the connection between the Smallbones and the Crimea. (For anyone unfamiliar with the period, the battle at Balaclava was where the Charge of the Light Brigade occurred in all it’s gory.)
At lunchtime I sat in the lunch room and had a coffee. I hadn’t bothered with food given I’d not eaten since Wednesday and I figured another day wouldn’t kill me. This is apart from the fact that I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. And I don’t believe you should eat unless you’re hungry.
After my coffee I returned to my computer and started feeling steadily worse. I left early, heading for the station with all the grace of a plague victim but without the buboes. I stopped off at a Superdrug for some cough mixture only to find that Superdrug appears to have more makeup than actual drugs.
Eventually I asked someone who, understanding the desperate croaks of a man in need of some sort of throat soothing tincture, showed me where it was hidden. I thanked her and bought it.
Then I was sitting in the waiting room at Woking Station swigging my evil looking mucus ridding cough mixture. An old chap sitting opposite me hugged his wife a little closer, worried I was some strange demented junkie with a cough fixation. I wasn’t bothered, though it rankled when I realised they were heading for Farnham and should have realised I was one of them.
Anyway, eventually I arrived home to a mystified wife. I took myself to bed and went almost immediately to sleep. And so I remained. At one stage Emma joined me. But that was it.
The cough mixture seemed to work though.
In sad news, Arthur Hassell died today. Like dad, he has been suffering with emphysema for years and it’s only been a matter of incurable time. Poor Andrew. I know how it feels.