Toddler illnesses teach me that I don’t do well cooped up inside all day. Does that make me a tiny little bit like the gypsy Esmeralda, but with not-so-fabulous hair? Do you think if I asked my hairdresser tomorrow for Gypsy Esmeralda hair, she’d be able to work with it? Never mind.
Henry’s on-again-off-again flirtation with hand, foot and mouth virus now seems to be definitely ON, FOREVER, IF DESTROYED STILL TRUE, and the NHS lady seemed to think this meant another spell indoors until my doctor can work out what on earth to do about it. So we cancelled outings again, stayed inside again, danced around with our underpants on top of our pyjamas, and generally wound each other up until we were ready to write rude things on the walls. Did I mention it’s been a week since this thing appeared? Oh, his poor swollen hands look like they’ve been scalded. It’s how I imagine Hermione’s hands to look after the Bubotuber pus incident, remember that? He spends all day with them clasped gingerly together on his lap, like a Jane Austen heroine in petticoats. It makes me sad.
Today, by 2.30pm, we’d had enough, and the two of us went up on the Ridgeway for a spell (Britain’s oldest chalk road, used by prehistoric man and, I assume, many people since). At least we could ramble there without touching other children. He had fun talking back to the sheep and licking chalk off stones, but asked to be carried twice. Definitely not on form.
I suppose if you’re going to be in quarantine anywhere, doing it here isn’t half bad.