So it was a bad night and a couple of bad days before that with a lot of nausea and stuff like that and oh such awful weakness like you wish someone would catch you falling and even then you keep on falling. Still, managed the odd short constitutional (on Xmas this is what Jack C would call his stroll) and tried to distract myself with British, nay Swedish crime drama and the usual reruns of Hugh Grant movies on TV.
And this morning we dug the car out of the snow and R dropped me at our GP while he stacked up on whatever. And the GP listened to my murmuring complaining abdomen and squeezed a couple of very sore places and declared me ill with gastritis. But not to worry. I mean, would I? Why ever not. I can worry at the drop of a hat.
The cat chases me around the house and I open the back door for her and then the front door and then the laundry door and everytime it's the same old snow and she gives me this reproachful look as if I put it out there myself. She is bored like a spoilt child locked indoors and nips out to mark her realm and stalks back in record time.
The f key has started to get stuck on this ancient second hand laptop (thank you thank you S) and I started to re-read my scribbling for fear of misspelling the odd f-word which I don't use.
And tomorrow we will drive to the coast to see the snow on the sandy beaches. Or maybe we'll get stuck in a drift or on an icy motorway.