It’s like clockwork. Every time my friends Anny and Matt drive all the way from Bath to visit me in London, our time together is spoiled because one (or more) of us is unwell. This weekend was no exception, for they were both sporting the kind of colds that have you wanting to sterilise door handles after they’ve touched them in the fear that you’ll pick up the snuffles yourself. I’ve never seen so many tissues die in the line of duty, or heard such loud nose-blowing noises coming from my bathroom (Matt is a champion at nostril-honkage).
Meanwhile, our trip to Richmond Park today for a picnic was lovely but ever-so-slightly hampered by the fact that I could only walk a hundred yards without having to sit down and recover from my sciatica, which chose this weekend to remind me exactly why I’m going to the trouble of having an MRI scan tomorrow. When you’re actually relieved to be stuck in a traffic jam because it means you can sit down for a few more minutes, you know you’re in trouble.
So between us we could have had a sucky weekend; it’s rather amazing that we still managed to have fun. Particularly while watching last night’s Doctor Who, which was unashamedly lumpy-throaty and also one of the most wonderfully-cast episodes of any show I’ve ever seen.
Funnily enough, there was a bit of nostril-honkage from me after it finished. I must have a cold coming on…