Time out with "the Wiltshires"

You could be forgiven for imagining that I am, oh so gently,

starting to get back on my feet and taking my first steps

in local society - dining with the county set,

taking tea with the bishop and working on my

outfit for the Easter point to point.

OK Suzie - which one of you two slurped?

 

You are sadly mistaken.  "The Wiltshires" I refer to is a

particularly virulent virus which has laid me, yet again,

flat on my back and fit for nothing.

As the charming doctor said this morning,

"Your convalescence doesn't seem to be going very well

so far does it Mrs Line?"

 

I do so love a little touch of British understatement from

time to time - don't you?

 

Cue violins.

I am no stranger to feeling poorly.

It all kicked off in my late teens when I was one of the first

to be seen wearing a deep vein thrombosis with matching

pulmonary embolism but so hard to find the right shoes to go

with the outfit.  The choice of colour was so limited in those days.

 

There was no stopping me after that - "ologies", "ectomies",

"syndromes" all followed in a never ending, rainbow stream.

My all time favourite maladie of choice, which I cherish to this day,

has to be lupus.  It's the closest I could come,

without actually catching rabies,

to something essentially canine.

Although hard pad was once suspected until quite by chance

I discovered a horseshoe nail lodged in the heel of my

left riding boot.  Oooops!

The mandrake goes well with ice and a slice.

 

My delightful guest suite here at Long Dog HQ UK

now resembles a pop up branch of Boot's the Chemist.

My nose is temporarily joined to my mouth by a

cold sore of epic proportions.

And Rodney the cat has deserted me and gone in

search of more amusing company.

A long dog would stay true until the end of time or at least until they called "time"

at the Frog & Radiator.  (It does exist, check it out if you don't believe me!)

 

What good could possibly come out of all this?

Well, I'll tell you.

Special rapid fire pack for people with pump action nostrils.

 

I bought myself a Vick's inhaler at the pharmacy on the way home.

Back in the '50s no self-respecting, snotty-nosed kid could

be found without one somewhere about their person.

It would fit almost any orifice although I have to say that

the nostril was my site of preference.

 

An expert "Vicker" could fire one from their nose quite some

considerable distance if the trajectory was calculated just right.

I can give no further details as I am still bound by a

childhood oath of allegiance not to divulge our secrets.

Nice to see the old traditions
still being passed on to the
next generation.

 

What I can say, however, is this.

Once that fickle cat does show his face again

he's in for a surprise.

The inhaler is loaded, in place and ready to fire.

Here kitty, kitty .....

You brought this on yourself Rodney!