I was going to spend an hour this afternoon going through my spice collection – I know, darlings, sounds much more fun than it is – but I had a phone call from Weeza at 3 o’clock. We’d already spoken in the morning, so there had to be something amiss – she’d not been feeling well so had had a nap in bed, come downstairs for some food before picking up the children from school and her head had swum and she’d had to lie down or faint, and she still felt ill. A friend would fetch the children from school, but Phil was visiting his granny, who’s 95 and not very well, so she’d be alone with the children tonight unless I could help: and of course I could. I said I’d leave in ten minutes, I stoked up the fire, hid some presents I’d bought, fed the chickens and cats, put food down for Eloise and left.
Weeza looked pretty rough, white and frail, and Phil was about to leave. She promised she’d eat – she’s on the thin side, so skipping a meal does her no good – and I brought the children home. I’d taken some breaded chicken out of the freezer before I left, so they had that with chips. They had cucumber and carrots while it was cooking and yoghurt to follow, it wasn’t all about junk food (though I’m not above that, in its place).
They’re in bed now and I’m back downstairs with a glass of wine in front of the fire. They’re hoping for pancakes in the morning for breakfast, if the chickens have laid an egg or two.