I am really getting a little tired of feeling yucky!
So bad have I felt that I have not been able to sit for too long at the keyboard.
All I can do is use one hand to type because the other hand is trying to make me feel better, by wiping my fevered brow.
(And you thought I was going to be filthy didn't you? Go on admit it.)
So I lurk around the forums feeling not so good.
The doctor says I am fine, nothing serious, just getting older, maybe with a "bit of a bug."
Yikes, getting older! When did this happen?
What next? Will I start to decay on the spot?
Rotting flesh falling onto the kitchen floor.
Perhaps I should get another cat to save me from having to mop up.
Great clumps of what hair I have left now litters the carpets.
If I vacuum it up it clogs the vacuum cleaner.
But then so too do the dead mice.
A bird of unknown origin died on the driveway overnight.
I didn't know a thing about it until the boyfriend left to go to the video store and came back into the house screaming about death and dead things all over the yard. I immediately thought of the 'End of Days' and joined him to view this calamitous event in our back yard. I can't really call it the back garden as it is mainly shrivelled weeds.
I grabbed the shovel and dug a hole and then with great dignity lowered the deceased into the hole.
Unfortunately it fell off the end of the shovel into the grave hole, causing my darling to shriek in terror.
"Is it dead?" he screamed. For some reason I thought of John Cleese and the dead Parrot sketch from Fawlty Towers, but I resisted the temptation to pick up the poor dead bird and fling it skyward in the hope that it might take off. This flight had already departed I told him. He is so sensitive.
I put my arm around him to comfort him. He was shivering. I wondered if he had been meeting this bird behind my back as he drove off in the mornings. I wouldn't haven't minded, I'm not the jealous type.
We stood silently by the grave uttering our thanks to the gods for the fowls of the air that had fouled up our driveway, and looked carefully to the heavens to see if there were any more dropping down to Earth.
It was only a small pigeon sized bird. But what had killed it?
Did it have a heart attack in mid-flight? Was it a suicide?
Was it bird flu? Well this bird flew no more.
Bird flu! Bird flu? OMG. We might have bird flu.
I sterilise the shovel.
"Quick, quick," I tell the beloved one, " we must wash our hands."
I ring the council to get the latest news on migrating birds with epidemic diseases.
They tell me not to worry.
The boy friend drives off to work muttering something about me being a hypochondriac-drama-queen.
And he was the one that was screaming!
I'm going back to bed.