I have woken up snifflier than an elephant with hay fever. Obviously, a sprained knee is not bad enough for The Gods Of My Body to be happy with my physical condition, so they have thrown a not-Covid-coronavirus at me as well.
Bastards.
It's not all that bad, I suppose. I wasn't planning to be doing anything anyway, but it would be nice to be doing nothing without feeling run down and full of snot. We have a rather lovely looking joint of silverside waiting to be thrown in a roasting pan, and it would be nice to be able to taste it properly. I'll just have to lather it in English mustard and get my flavour hit that way.
Philippa is planning to mow the lawn today, which is normally my job, but she's firmly instructed me to keep away from it until I can walk without feeling like my knee is about to buckle. I'm a bit concerned, I must be honest, because she has not touched the mower since we moved here. I am worrying that she might injure herself, or bugger up the machinery, or shoot a stone through a window or something. Or maybe I'm just feeling territorial because it feels like she's muscling in on my workspace and taking away one of the few manly jobs that I am manly enough to do successfully. If that's true, it must be coming from somewhere subconscious, because I hate mowing and could happily hand it over to her indefinitely without feeling deprived or emasculated.
RC 10-4-22
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