Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

  

IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH

   I was up early for the eight o’clock service on Sunday and left Crichton in bed with a cup of tea. I had hoped the dogs would have been walked and the dishwasher emptied when I got back. Not a bit of it. Man-flu has struck. 

Crichton refuses to soldier when he’s got even the hint of a sniffle, and spent the whole day propped up on pillows, watching old episodes of The Professionals. He is not a particularly demanding invalid, and if one closes the bedroom door his little cries for Lucozade and grapes can be barely heard. But I can’t be doing with his histrionics. If he could see how stoically poor Edith Noakes bears her trials (the hip still isn’t properly healed) he would think again before demanding room service. 

Now he tells me he can’t be bothered with his diary…well, I’m not having that. We are in this together. At least could do something useful if he’s going to lie about all day long. I had to be very firm and told him that if he thinks he can give up and let Bunty get one over on us, he is as wrong as white socks with a dinner suit. 

   By Monday I'd had enough and decided that I needed to get out of the house. Yoga usually soothes me, so I popped down to Lugg Leisure for a session on the mat. I admit I drifted off to sleep at one point during the relaxation bit at the end and woke myself up with a little snore. Tamara says that is perfectly all right and shows that I am truly letting myself go. Apparently a fart is good too, but I haven’t let go quite that much yet. 

Not so Rodney on the purple mat near the windows. 

There is always a rush to get a space on the other side of the room, well away from him.

   Then off to Fringe Benefits for my 12.30 hair appointment. Just my luck, the rain was coming down in stair rods. Lauren suggested I should have my roots done again and I agreed, despite the ridiculous price, if only to stay in out of the weather for a bit longer. So on with the ‘plap’ and foils, then half an hour with a nice cappuccino with one of those little Italian biscuits in the saucer. So relaxing. I managed four new levels on Candy Crunch.

   It does one good to be cosseted at the hair dressers and I pick up all sorts of gossip about my friends and neighbours. Fancy Moira Newgate being prosecuted for shoplifting in WH Smiths. £200 seems a harsh penalty for a pack of Sharpies and a copy of Horse and Hound, but apparently, it’s not the first time. 

Lauren did a lovely job on the tresses, but the wind was howling outside. Even with a head scarf, by the time I got home I looked like Ken Dodd on a bad day.

After supper,  Crichton seemed to rally a little and actually looked up from his paper.

   ‘I do love you,’ he said. ‘Why not give yourself a little treat. Have a hair do, you know how much you like that. I’ll even pay.’ 

The whole afternoon had been a complete waste of time.

Crichton Comments

Feeling like death warmed up all week. 

Starve a fever, feed a cold? 

One cup of lukewarm tea and a slice of toast is not enough to keep the germs at bay. Cynthia is no Florence Nightingale and has been bullying me mercilessly. I could die before she took any notice. In the end I got up and went into the village for my own Lucozade. 

They really do sell everything in that shop. Mrs Patel was most sympathetic and suggested a packet of honey and lemon flavoured cough sweets. I must say they are delicious.

Delicious but dangerous. I have cracked a molar.