Dull

Supremely dull I know, and even duller to share, but I seem to be getting sick (all the signs are here - sore throat, tired, extremely grumpy) and so while Jumby makes pizzas for lots of nice people at the Gibbins, I am in bed with not one but two dogs buffering me and heating me up like a jacket potato. I'm sipping tea and feebly nibbling on some nougat from Montelimar that Minks discovered in Susina today after we eschewed the line at Sprinkles (round the block, I kid you not). I hope we haven't disappointed 7th grade advisory with our "snack" but how was I to know that Susiecakes is closed on a Sunday, that Sprinkles is more popular than the Beatles in 1963, that Milk doesn't make cupcakes? Like most self-involved egomaniacs I start to feel terribly sorry for myself when I'm ill and imagine myself an invalid who desires small amounts of poached fish to be served bedside by my charming and handsome husband (who, it was pointed out to me, looks startlingly like a young Steve McQueen) but he instead has done the intelligent thing and has left the house with Minks to join our friends for dinner. I wouldn't like me much like this either, it's true. I'm grumpy and 'orrible and I shall watch "Vertigo."