This little catch up post is a veritable smorgasbord of snippets. Any one of them would make a full post on its own but I haven’t got the time or energy for that, it’s been busier than an eight lane motorway at rush hour. So, it’s snippets or nowt, I’m afraid.
Munki and I were taking Douggie the doggie for a walk the other day. Out of the blue Munki suddenly said. Nanny, how many times a day do you walk the dog.?” Me: “Three. At 7am, a long walk mid afternoon then about 8pm. Why do you ask?
“Why aren’t you dead, nanny?
“You must be exhausted. All those breakfasts to cook, all those rooms to clean and guests to look after and now you sew every night as well as all the other things you do. I don’t know how you do it all every day. I couldn’t do what you do. I don’t know why you aren’t dead with it all.”
Aw. Bless her. It’s nice to be noticed.
On Saturday while Douggie and I were on the beach during the mid afternoon walk I got a phone all from Lashes. “Mum, baby has a rash.” “Don’t worry, love. Kids get rashes.”
“It doesn’t go away when I press a glass on it, he’s just screamed for an hour and a half and he’s really hot.
“Phone the doctor, right now.”
I start to rush home, Lashes phones me again. “Can you pick the kids up? There’s an ambulance on the way.”
Off I went to pick up the kids to find a paramedic outside the house. My God, that was quick. Baby was all hooked up to various machines and looking very pale and sorry for himself and with a rash that was developing before our eyes. “Right, I’m not messing about, I’m getting him in,” said the paramedic. Five minutes later up turned an ambulance. Lots of curtains twitched on Lashes quiet, uneventful road.
Poor little baby underwent two days of tests, prodding, examinations, ruminations and injections while they ruled out meningitis and an autoimmune disease called HSP. The end result was a non-identifiable viral infection that his little body wasn’t able to fight and it mimicked meningitis with it’s symptoms. Pumped full of antibiotics he was discharged from hospital this morning, not with a clean bill of health but with a clean enough to go home bill of health.
While all this was going on and we looked after Munki and her two step brothers, Ben and Jerry as well as the dog, fleabagpeebag.
The sleeping arrangements were a bit of a challenge. Although we live in a stonking great house, our part of it is really quite small and all the letting rooms had been let. So, time to get organising. “Boys sleep downstairs, girls sleep upstairs.” That meant that the boys had to share a single Zed bed and Boofuls got the sofa. Munki and I shared a double bed upstairs.
I quickly discovered that Munki has limpet tendencies. “Oh my God! Back off, child, I can’t breathe!!”
“Nanny, I’m going to pretend I’m a sheep and then count myself till I go to sleep.”
“One…………I’m still awake”
Cue twenty minutes of giggling.
While all this was going one we played mine host to competitors in the International Irish dance Championships. Twenty four girls and mums rocked up with dress carriers, huge cases and even bigger cases for their make up.
If you’ve never played host to a house full of excitable and nervous preteenage and teenage girls you’ve never lived. The breakfast orders were bizarre, I felt like I was on Four in a Bed, they couldn’t have been more difficult and picky if they tried. Two girls were vegetarian for three days and then decided they were vegan on the last day. Never in the history of B&B-ing has so much food been wasted.
After breakfast they drifted off to get ready for their particular rounds. As we did the rooms we were transfixed by the metamorphosis of little girls into teeny, tiny, identikit drag queen lookalikes. Every one of them had stupidly long eyelashes, mahogany tans and curly wigs and of course the obligatory short dance dresses. It was hard to tell one from another. Bizarrely, or maybe not considering all the exercise they get, they all had legs like sparrows.
It wasn’t hard to tell which side of the bed the dancer slept in. Want to know how we could tell? Its like the Turin shroud.
The bathrooms and towels looked like a crime scene:
As if all this wasn’t fun enough. Boofuls, full of a cold that had gone straight onto his chest, got a call from the doctors surgery. “Would you like a flu and pneumonia jab?” “No thank you, I’ve never had flu. Goodbye.”
I looked at him bemused. “Are you sure about this?” He phoned them back. “I’ve changed my mind.” They got him in that very evening, obviously thinking that if they didn’t catch him quickly he’d run away.
They duly gave him the injections, one in each arm. Over the next couple of days he developed flu symptoms on top of his cold. “Noooooo, not now, Boofuls, we’re too busy.” Poor Boofuls, coughed, sneezed, snuffled, ached and wheezed his way through the whole, full on weekend.
Now that Baby is out of hospital, the grandchildren and dog have all gone to their respective homes, the guests have all gone. The house is so peaceful I did wonder for a while if I’d gone deaf.
Boofuls and I are taking a day or two to catch our breath and recover. It’s peace perfect peace.