… the mice will play.

This week’s entry (if we do indeed now count my entries by the week, though I don’t think that wise as I am constantly losing the time amidst pages of research on botany or spiritualism) is not another discourse on pink-eyed, nimble-footed furry vermin, but rather a pointer to H-‘s blog, which I besieged – ever so politely, of course – over the weekend while H and I were dogsitting. Not only did the lovely H- allow us to reign over her wine cellar, the contents of her fridge and her chocolate-coated Labrador, she also left her computer up and running. Naturally, being an inquisitive girl, I worked out that one could also gain access to her blog, and proceeded to abuse my privileges thereof. I contemplated allowing H to write his bit, but not being bound by the parameters of good sense and breeding like his sister, I finally deemed this unwise and would not allow him near the computer.

Suffice to say, a lovely time was had by all in Bath, despite my carrying some variant of the 1918 Spanish flu which consigned me to the now-famous cream couch for much of my stay. I have to confess I was up one night vomiting, like my brother (see here), but naturally made it to the toilet basin in time, rather that floundering in the far reaches of the living room. Needless to say, this was not on account on the imbibing of too many substances, but rather a reaction to my flu drugs. If anyone knows anything about why one’s left eye should be stinging and weeping whilst vomiting, please let me know, as I am somewhat concerned.

I even managed to burn a portion of my legs upon the roof, which was amazing as they have scarcely seen the sun this season (I refuse to call it ‘summer’), and then, arising from my deathbed, I made it into town to purchase a gorgeous pair of green suede boots, and felt as though I had reached nirvana, which surely had nothing to do with my semi-conscious state.

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