Unwell

I suppose it was a cold- or possibly a sinus infection. It got more and more debilitating. I kept myself from dwelling on it by watching The Devil's Whore on my portable DVD player (after all I wasn't having half as bad a time of it as Angelica Fanshawe- one husband shot to death by Charles I, a second murdered on Cromwell's orders) but in the end I couldn't cope any longer and took myself off to bed and Ailz very kindly managed my mother for the rest of the evening. I slept well and all I remember of my dreams is a passage of very vivid colour. I had this shopping bag and it was yellow. Very, very yellow.

This morning I seem to have left whatever it was behind. I'm tired,  weak, but fit for duty again.

Shrew In A Shoe

Another shrew. Or maybe it was the shrew we had earlier and it never left.

Marlowe pointed it out to us. It was hiding in a pile of shoes. We started poking around and it climbed into one of my mother's Oxfords. I covered the opening with my hand, took the shoe to the bottom of the lower field (beyond the scope of Marlowe's wanderings, I think) and let the shrew loose in a woodpile.