Wasn’t I recently whining, at length, about being sick? Indeed I was, but I’m ever so much better, thanks. Now, though, R Man is sick and NOT WITH SOMETHING I GAVE HIM. I want that clearly understood.
Poor lamb is having digestive issues and that is as specific as I am going to get. Our friend John claims his mother completely exasperated her doctor by refusing to refer to anything below her jawline except as “Down There.” I think that’s a brilliant policy and I have now adopted it wholeheartedly. Bowels, liver, knees, if I had uterus (I’m pretty sure I don’t,) all of it will henceforth be Down There.
So we had to go to our friend the doctor this morning for some nasty pills that are supposed to be clearing everything up. I hope they do, I hate it when R Man’s sick. I have to force myself not to hover, urging tea on him and asking every fifteen minutes how he’s doing. It’s not really nursing him back to health, it’s more like hectoring him into wellness. Which reminds me, I have to go make some more tea now.
Also, houseboy Honore Rowenus reminds us that we haven’t featured any of the boys lately and that it’s his turn. I do hate to disappoint them, so I promised if he was a good boy and took the tea to R Man, I’d see if I could squeeze him in.