“…but she’s still shitting brown water,” I explain over the telephone.
There is a pause whilst the Doctor considers his diagnosis. “Yuk,” he concludes.
“I’ve just been feeding her bread. And to be honest, if I give her any more bread then I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns into a loaf of bread. If that’s medically possible,” I add doubtfully.
“How is she in herself?”
“She’s pretty distressed, to be honest.”
“Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!” the Baby interjects, in a voice of extreme cute and cheerfulness. I round on her. “This isn’t fucking Petite Anglaise, you know.”
I am worried that my last diary entry implied that I was critical of the NHS, which is not the case as everybody knows that our NHS is the envy of the world, like our football league, national stadium, system of democracy, Post Offices, national broadcaster etc. etc. But some people slag it off quicker than Jimmy Carr’s agent on his way to the Embassy Club, Manchester.
The Doctor gives me some good advice, which is basically to ignore it and it will go away anyway. Which happens, and I am grateful as ever.