The winter virus visits
and has reduced me to ordering food from a well-known purveyor of pizzas. To me, this is the pits, although in my twenties such supplies formed the basis of many a meal (usually a late night supper, usually after skipping dinner, usually because I was drinking in the pub).
The children think this dereliction of maternal duty in the dietary stakes is quite marvellous because the pizza came with ice-cream and a fizzy drink. I am too ill to care, other than that they are fed in some fashion. The youngest remarked that the winter virus can visit her again if this is how she will dine. I said it is not because she is ill that we are reduced to eating this rubbish, but because I am.
In other illness ramifications: the dog was disgusted with his lack of walk for the last 24 hours, until I supplied him with rather more than the remains of an accompanying pasta dish the delivery driver enclosed in the pizza box. It seems the way to everyone’s heart is to become too ill to care anymore and feed them all crap.
And now we are watching Matilda for about the zillionth time in the last decade. After the children’s own unwholesome meal they are obviously in the mood for watching Bruce Bogtrotter eat the ‘entire confection’…