The flat got tidied in time. H got better, and was more or less functional by Friday, so he managed to do all sorts of things I hate doing, like tidying the Matterhorn of Correspondance off the kitchen table, and hoovering. I prefer scrubbing things and making beds, so that’s what I did.
Friday night, I went shopping on the way home from work, and cooked dinner for my mother-in-law, and, yes, remembered that it was Yom Kippur and that, really, I was not in any way managing to honour my Jewish heritage. But I felt very tired, and rather sweaty (sorry), and in fact I’d like to apologise to the friend I escaped from work for half-an-hour to have coffee with on Friday afternoon, because I know I was bright pink and possibly glowing. Sorry. So I ate dinner.
And today I have the peaceful, tidy flat all to myself. H and his mother have gone out to be cultural without me. The sweatiness and exhaustion turned out to be the beginnings of my own turn at H’s bad cold, and in me it’s gone straight to my chest and I keep doubling over and coughing like a seal. Horrid.
So I am watching the World Cup Rugby.
In so far as it is posible to relax while coughing quite this much.