Sick

Oh dear, every one is poorly.

Each of us, to a man.

I have been dispensing cough syrup to Lulu and Tutz, who are sharing a duvet in Martha and I's shared coat cupboard.

Fat boy Faggot has been terribly sick in the hall.

Giggsey Girl the Stupid Slug Face is huddled on a cushion which lays on the top of the sofa and rests against the wall, from which she can gain the most benefit from the rediator.

Fing is laying on his cushion, the one next to mine, in bed and is too grumpy to speak and instead is coughing in an irritated fashion as if to illustrate a point.

Trotter won't be spoken to and instead is waiting for Martha to come home, a dejected figure at the bottom of the stairs.

I just don't know what to do with myself. I've got no one to speak to, well unless one of them calls out for a lemsip or cough syrup or a hot toddy, I may as well not be here.

I'm off back to bed to watch old episodes of Quincy and Lovjoy.