I cannot be ill

The clouds came storming over the hill, bringing the promise of rain. I took the wireless up to the field so I could listen to The Today programme whilst I brushed the horses. Red very much enjoyed Sarah Montague, but got grumpy when it hit nine o’clock and Andrew Marr came on. She dashed the radio from the gatepost, giving herself a huge shock as the dial turned to hissing static. She’ll be writing to Roger Bolton at Feedback next.

Good ride, good breakfast, good work. 1152 words. Felt industrious and even managed to do several pieces of admin. I hate admin. I hate the very word. I want admin fairies to live in my drawers and send all the emails and make all the telephone calls for me. (When I say drawers, I mean desk drawers, not underwear. I feel I should make this clear or distressing mental pictures shall be stuck in your minds all day long.)

Then the rain did come and everything went black. I was struck with a simultaneous wall of nausea. Bugger, I thought; I can’t be ill. I have horse life and work life and errands to run and soup to make for my mother. There is no space for illness. But it turns out I now can’t sit upright, so I am crawling into bed and hoping eighteen hours’ sleep might fix the problem and then I shall be bright and bonny again tomorrow. If that does not work, I shall break out the whisky. I was brought up to think there was nothing better to knock a bug on the head. And I do live in Scotland, after all.

No energy for pictures, just the two obligatory lovely faces: