Today I discovered that there truly isn’t any speed limit on the extra mile.
This year is going to be the last End of Year report to Wall Street for the Mistake Factory.
Some big private equity fund with shitloads of money, and possibly a sprinkle of business acumen (the jury is still out on that one) decided that buying the Mistake Factory could be a sound investment.
So, this December, for the last time, I decided to pull all the stops to delight the shareholders and decided to wait until the first night of my Christmas vacation to get sick. Very sick.
On the penultimate day of Christmas, my Mimi gave to me, a strep throat under the tree-ee…
Not just to me. She was rather liberal. We are all sick. Except Finnzy, the jammy little bollix. But I would not hold my breath.
It’s been a truly difficult day. I managed to cook a couscous while struggling not to faint.
There were tears. Mrs Raheny’s, as she struggled with the shakes in a blanket that brought little comfort.
I did for a second entertain the notion of reaching for the camera but I was a) too weak to lift the DSLR and the poxy Windows Phone is banjaxed b) only too aware that her state of extreme debilitation would not last for ever, and I would eventually have to pay for my callousness. With interests.
With Nana having opted to keep 200 miles between her and the Place of Pestilence (smart move!), there was little else to do but try not to puke while cooking the couscous (that Pepe won’t eat anyway, any food stuff invented or prepared more than 30 miles from his place of birth is tapas non gratas), and listen to Luca occasionally croak a feeble “this is the worse Christmas ever”.
It possibly is. It definitely is one to remember. I’m sure we will laugh back on it with the passage of time.
But right now it is true and utter agony.
I haven’t eaten anything all day. Ok, a sirloin steak may have passed my lips around 1 pm, and I may have eaten a clementine or eight to help the Germentin go down. I have lost so much body mass that I am getting worried.
Mrs Raheny, who is a classy bird, is on Klacid. I wonder if our GP goes on weekends to the Algarve with different pharmaceutical companies every year, and prefers to hedge his bets.
He wasn’t all that surprised to see all five of us in the surgery at opening time today (we brought Finnzy along, as a benchmark for health and vitality).
Today truly is a poxy Christmas Eve.
And to make matters worse, Mimi has just decided that she will still struggle through Through the Woods.
I’m through with Christmas.