The Hound Of The Baskervilles*

“Am setting off now,” Seb’s message comes through at 3.11pm today.  “Are you up to a Restaurant?”

“Think so!”  I say.  “You?”  Have just this minute arrived home from the hospital and am settling under my furry blanket.  

“I am,” Seb replies.  “Only if you’re up to it though.  See what your parents think.”

“Am I up to a restaurant, Mum?”‘I say.

“Let’s discuss it during the next lot of adverts,” Mum says.  We’re watching The Hound Of The Baskervilles – the Jeremy Brett one.

But they won’t win.  Oh no they won’t.  Don’t worry.

“Have I got any clothes here?” I say to Mum.

“No,” Mum says.

Wandering into my bedroom, opening the wardrobe, surveying my several cashmere and silk knitted dresses, I sigh.  Trying them on, I realise that they’re all too tight and look dreadful.  They were too small last winter and I’m even fatter now.

“What about this one?” I ask Mum, modelling the black one with the pink, orange and purple stripes, sucking in my tummy.  Wore it a mere three times before piling on twenty pounds.

“It’s not too bad,” Mum says, staring at my tummy.  “Except…”

“It’s not all fat,” I say.  “The nurses say that all the opiates cause water retention and…”

“How about something that’s a different shape?” Mum says.

“Both my arms are swollen now,” I say.  “And I’ve piled on some muscle of course.”

“Be with you in five minutes,” Seb’s message comes through at 5.24pm.  Had better post this blog, pull some clothes on and try to appear mentally normal.

Happy Tuesday everyone!
*1902.  By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes detective novel.

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