Saturday 18th September

Dad pops round in the morning for a shower, having slept on the fold-out bed in the new house covered in sawdust. After a quick breakfast we are back into the new abode to continue sanding and painting, although I am feeling like warmed up dog-poo thanks to my manflu. We are finishing by midday, so dad tootles home and I return to the old house where I found that everyone is out. I use the downtime to recuperate, put on two cardigans and a coat to raise my temperature and veg out in front of Octopussy, a reasonably entertaining wrinkly Roger Moore era 007 flick. In the evening, I valiantly fight my Manfly like the wounded soldier I am and rustle up a chicken chasseur that I don’t eat – proof that I am seriously ill. I fall asleep on the office and wake up at 12.15am with Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker on the TV, but during my comatose state, my metabolism has won a battle, if not the war against Manflu.

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