Mum went home today, after 2 months sleeping on a bed in our sitting room while her broken leg mended. You might think that at 41, nearly 42, I would be past trying not to cry while saying goodbye to mummy, but apparently not. Life is generally a bit wearing at the moment; Copper the dog, who will be 18 in April, has started falling over even a bit more than she was before, and weeing hither and yon without warning, and also has a new heart murmur, I find when I finally get round to listening to her chest, and seems generally less comfortable today than she has been (although still keen to lick out roasting trays). So there may be bad news on the horizon there, although I've thought so many times before and been wrong.
Meanwhile, John is debating Qatar or not Qatar, and otherwise, it being half term, my day was spent rationing computer time and sorting out childrens' social lives. All this would be fine if only it would stop raining. If global warming means rain all winter and frying all summer for us, as I fear it may, then I wish we could be more consciencious about turning off the computers. Oh well.
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