Exhausted of Venice


This has been one hell of a few days.

First, because my husband who, until he got sick never realised so many people love him, has been cherished and nourished night after night by friends who kindly invited us to eat.

We have been feted by three consecutive Pie Crust Queens. Friday was strawberry pie, Saturday was apple pie with a cream cheese crust, Sunday was an upside down jammy, almondy Bakewell tart. Not to mention all the artichokes, asparagus, bread, soup, wine, grappa and Alka-Seltzer we’ve been stuffing down our throats.

Then, yesterday afternoon, my youngest daughter went into labour. My baby was having her baby which takes quite a bit of getting your head round, so I couldn’t sleep. And then, not long after I did nod off, my cell phone went Ding-a-ling-a-ling to tell me the baby was safely delivered. 7lbs 2oz and a perfect little bonsai of his Dad. That was at 4.30 this morning.

All in all, I could do with a nap. But there’s a landslide of unironed shirts I have to deal with, plus a dance rehearsal for Cinderella’s two ugly sisters. And later on my new grandson will be phoning me for a chat. Not even a day old and making his first Skype call. Amazing.         

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