This evening’s despatches come from the Ruthven hospital wing.
Mum and Lachlan are exiled to the infectious sofa where they are festering with head colds. They communicate the need for drinks and snacks in strained, nasal tones as though from the distant end of a 1920s speaking tube. Lachlan has only just risen from his sickbed, the fifth member of his work team to be struck down this week. Mum is made of sterner stuff and spent a good hour chopping kindling before retreating to the fire. She is sporting a supplemental fleecy blanket and has the air of a displaced (but rather shiny) Inuit.
I form the halt and lame contingent. The right leg is taped up to alleviate a tendon problem and the left continues to ache with unspecified muscular woes. On Wednesday during physio the lovely Megan hauled it in various directions to little avail. Attempts to stretch things out was like playing whack a mole. No sooner had one recalcitrant muscle been hauled out for a stretch another leaped in to yank it back. I have remedial exercises and instructions to tuck my tail in whenever the walk turns overly Quasimodo.
Lyra is snoring gently next to me. Her claim to participation in the invalid stakes took the form of a spectacular morning vomit. Consumption of something untoward is suspected and, over all, she appears the healthiest of the party. (The cats are, naturally, in fine fettle, but sagely shunning the halt and lame contingent.)
Keith is prowling somewhere, frustrated that he can’t play darts due to the copious hand lacerations inflicted on Sunday night. During an ill advised trip to Luigi’s in the dark carrying a salad bowl he tripped on a plant pot. The bowl shattered and there was an almighty howl. I have to confess I had paid no attention as a similar ululation is often triggered by leaving a door open. However, Lachlan was in the kitchen when Keith stumbled back through the door spurting all over like an unlucky extra in a slasher movie. After the gushing reduced only slightly after the bold boy had deployed his excellent first aid skills, the ambulance was called (all drivers being several glasses down). Keith spent the early hours in A&E and is now sporting 4 stitches on one side, three on the other and a few dumbbells.
None of this has facilitated the planting of the vast box of bulbs which arrived a couple of weeks ago. I did make a start in the days before the frost set in, but not with the usual vigour. Once I made it down to prime planting position there was no guarantee of ever getting up again and that put rather a crimp in progress. Thankfully, the weather was declared too warm for planting tulips so I shoved them in the garden store and assumed that by the time the weather cooled I’d be sprightly again. Alas, the weather went straight to freezing – half the destination beds are rock solid – and I remain distinctly creaky. I have started with the pots – less bending and no digging – but the bulk of the bulbs continue to sprout maliciously in the porch. My hopes are set on a thaw next week and the copious application of topical pain relief.
In the gaps between the onset of these various calamities there was a trip to Edinburgh to celebrate Lachlan’s graduation, followed by a wonderful boozy lunch at the Witchery (which was frankly necessary to dull the pain of the huge blister which developed on the route march along Princes Street in my new boots.). I also managed a brief burst of mincemeat, jelly and soap making. Auditions for the family Christmas card are ongoing and I have completed one Christmas jumper (to the usual made up as you go along design). A large box of dried fruit is sitting in the porch next to the bulbs, destined for cake, so, whilst not entirely on track, Christmas is not cancelled.
