15st 8lb, zero units. Fantastic news: I have completely got over the stomach bug that confined me to bed on Friday. Less good news: I now have something that bears a marked resemblance to flu, featuring a general feeling of debility, aching joints and a hacking, bronchitic cough. Lovely. If there are any other germs out there looking for a comfortable berth this winter, I’m your man. Just drop me a quick line and I’ll do my very best to find a window for you.
Somehow – and I really don’t know how – I pulled myself together enough to drive from Northumberland to Chester just about in time for The Baby’s 2.56 (I kid you not) appointment at the hospital where he was born. Or, more particularly, the hospital where he spent a few days in the neo-natal unit immediately after he was born, so that he should have been invited back for a follow-up consultation with a paediatrician a few weeks later. Only they forgot, as they explained in the apologetic letter offering us this very precisely timed appointment. I’d love to tell you what it was all about, but 2.56 is the very height of visiting time and there were huge queues to get into every car park on the hospital site, so I ended up dropping mother and Baby off and reading the Daily Telegraph in a quiet road on the residential development next door. Perhaps I’ll find out more when he returns for his next appointment in September. Only that is scheduled for 2.07, so I rather doubt it.
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
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