Toast

I nearly thought I was toast this morning.

One of my current jobs is cleaning the attic and organising storage up there. That involves a lot of wandering about in the eaves of the house, bent double to avoid cracking my head on the beams. This morning I was obviously getting a bit blasé about the beams and managed to smack the top of my head on one hard enough to make me fall down. I figured I was fine... Until I put my hand to my head and it came back covered in blood....

Happily TallGirl has a strong stomach and helped me patch myself up. And I found out that a triangular sling, folded in half, makes a very adequate head bandage. Add a fairly sturdy baseball cap and you're good to get back to work.

So, the attic was sorted (I ducked very low), then I sorted out the rest of the kitchen boxes that have been cluttering up the hall. All day I felt nauseous and headachey, but the internet tells me that's entirely normal, and I'm trusting in Savlon to do the trick and protect me from whatever 18th century germs are currently attacking me. It's mostly stopped bleeding, and a surprise vertical tasting of a favourite claret seems to have me on more of an even keel, though I'm not sure even the doctors in France would recommend that as a remedy.

A discussion on class with the kids, and the next James Bond movie brought the evening to a close. Slightly peckish, I remembered having unearthed the toastie maker from a box earlier - really, is there any finer sight than a cheese toastie?