We are back from Wales and I am sick. Miserably sick. Whilst away I contracted a lung infection which despite a visit from a doctor and a visit to A&E failed to properly clear, and in combination with the increased tiredness that inevitably accompanies being away from home has landed me in some difficulty. I spent all day yesterday in bed in the hope that a lot of rest and time on the ventilator would make me feel better. I must have been exhausted because I couldn't even read a page of my book let alone eat anything.
I awoke this morning to the comforting but anxious faces of Kalepo and Godfrey who decided they were out of their depth and called for Polly. As I was sat up the gunk in my lungs that had accumulated over the last 36 hours shifted and it felt as though someone had poured liquid concrete directly into my airways which then promptly began to set. Polly slapped the cough machine mask over my face and there followed a frantic period of assisted coughs until I could suck in enough air to enable me to be hoisted into the wheelchair.
This afternoon our GP made a house call. Dr Toosy has, as you might imagine, plenty of experience in dealing with me over the last eight years and so knows not to mess around with a couple of aspirins and some cough drops. He has prescribed me a vast concoction of antibiotics, steroids and nebulisers that hopefully will do the trick. Lord, I hope so. I'm too tired to be ill.
When I feel a bit better I will regale you with tales of our Welsh odyssey. Until then – Nos da.