I am so much better this evening it is like a miracle. At work on Saturday, I was feeling pretty ropey, and once home, spent the evening slumped on the sofa until I reckoned MasterB had had a good amount of time outside, and I could get him in without him feeling justly deprived. Only a common cold, but oh boy I felt rotten.
Yesterday, I was worse. Aliens were in my head, blocking my nose and pressing down on my eyebrows. I was hot. I was cold. The bin filled steadily with used tissues. Today I had physio at eight in the morning, and forced my reluctant body out of bed and into the shower. Hot water and steam did much to restore my sense of humanity, and having passed today’s work on to someone else, I was able to do my exercises safe in the knowledge that I could be back in my pyjamas by elevenses.
By mid afternoon though, I was up and dressed again. That magic moment had come when I could feel myself on the mend. My headache hasn’t gone entirely, I am still blowing my nose at regular intervals every few minutes, but the worst is behind me.
To celebrate, I sat outside with a book, but hardly read it as watching MasterB in the long grass was much more fun.
As you can see the fur is growing back very well on his injured left leg. The Ugg boot look will soon be over.
Tonight there was a programme on television about cats. It revealed something all pet owners know; stroking your pet is good for you. I believe watching your cat as he tracks the bees and the butterflies, finds the fallen unripe cherries in the grass, and comes to lie along side you is good for you too. Seeing his wild side as he attacks a tussock of grass; or suddenly races away in pursuit of something only he can see; the constant alertness of him and fascination in his miniature jungle.
I rather fell for Hamish McHamish, the cat who owns St Andrew’s. What a character.