Wednesday, Christmas day, and the world is full of ripping paper and cardboard boxes. Nothing like watching a seventeen month old doing Christmas. There are lots of messages and “Happy Christmas” to do and respond to. The day drifts between feasts, games and of course the King. There is a rare alcoholic drink mixed with the normal routine of medication. One of my presents is a book of Harry Martinson’s poetry, which I find a few minutes to read in the afternoon. A present from my son. At the end of the day I go to bed exhausted but so pleased I was with my newest grandson and family for the day.

Boxing day, Thursday, starts with an untimely waking as my youngest daughter is worried about her young son and so has decided to leave early. They pack quickly and drive off into the early morning mist, eventually to arrive home and to take the grandson to A&E and ultimately home again with antibiotics. I return to bed and get up properly mid morning. When I get up I am feeling grim but get on with reading my meters and tidying away the rest of the Christmas recycling. From then on I get worse, my throat is getting sore and my nose running. By the time I get to take my night meds I am feeling decidedly ill. My last acts of the day are to draft the blog and prepare for the coming day, throat pastilles ready.