Today I should have been thoroughly enjoying myself chasing Young Faris around the house, pushing him on the swings at the play park next to Sainsbury’s and looking forward to the sheer delight of “cuddling
him dry” after tonight’s bathtime.
Instead I am here at home, feeling a trifle sorry for myself, and dosing myself with Pepto Bismol which promises
that its “protective coating action” will calm and soothe my queasy stomach. Pepto Bismol, in case you have never had cause to sample its protective coating action, is an alarmingly lurid pink colour and has a chalky taste which, while not
exactly nasty, is not exactly pleasurable either. Nevertheless I keep taking it, on the grounds that it’s the only medicine in our cupboard which appears to have been designed for the purpose.
It’s a strange name, isn’t it? Pepto Bismol. The “Pepto” bit is fine, it’s quite cheery in fact. But the “Bismol” bit reminds me of “abysmal” which is not in the least
bit cheery. I wonder who came up with the name?
Mr B asks me what I have eaten, in an accusatory tone as if my indisposition is All My Fault. I tell him I can’t
think of anything I have eaten which he hasn’t eaten. I don’t mention the fact that my last main meal was the delicious boeuf bourgignon which he cooked for me and our supper guests on Monday evening. It simply can’t have been that.
Anyway, it is important, I always think, to look on the bright side and here I am with two free days, with nothing in the diary, a chance to relax and, if I can summon up
the energy between bouts of queasiness, tackle some of the more pleasant tasks which need to be done. I can pack up the present I have bought for my nephew’s new baby daughter, the enchantingly named Isla Poppy, and parcel it up ready for the post.
I can keep myself in Jack and Hazel’s good books by penning a News Release promoting the Limelight Theatre Group’s latest production, Fame Jr. I can make a start on my knitted policeman for the Worthing Churches Homeless Project’s new art
show (I don’t have a pattern for a kitted policeman so I am making Postman Pat, but with a round face instead of a long one. I reckon I’ll get away with it.) There are lots of less exciting things that need to be done but let’s not think
about them now, not while I am feeling fragile.
Mr B goes off to the Bowls Club’s Get Together. I had already sent my apologies, on the grounds that I thought
I would be in Cheam with Young Faris so they won’t be expecting me. The telephone rings and it is the Youngest of the Darling Daughters, concerned to know how I am feeling.
How I love the telephone. I’m not talking here about smart phones on which you can play games involving flapping birds, leaping sweets or jumping frogs. I’m talking about the plain and ordinary, honest to goodness telephone
which brings your nearest and dearest right into your living room.
Celebrating good news, consoling over bad news, or just nattering away about nothing in particular.
When you need a bit of a boost, a telephone call is guaranteed to raise the spirits. Nobody can natter on for longer, about nothing in particular, than the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and me.
We both have those phone contracts which allow you to phone “free” anytime of the day or night, provided that your call does not last more than an hour. If Mr B were at home he would be constantly checking
how long I have been on the phone; down at the Bowls Club Get Together he is blissfully oblivious to the length of the on-going conversation between me and our daughter. You are probably thinking that , after all, she rang me so why would he be bothered –
but Mr B still takes the same interest in our children’s well-being as when the only money they had to manage was their pocket money.
I feel ever so much
more cheerful when I replace the receiver after almost 39 minutes of chat. 39 minutes on the phone with the Youngest of the Darling Daughters is better than any medicine. I feel happy and well-loved, wrapped around in her own special brand of protective
It's even better than Pepto Bismal.