I'm at home today with a miserable, stinking, streaming, crappy ass cold. My throat, eyes, and face hurt. That's right, my face hurts. (Which reminds me of that old schoolground joke: "Does your face hurt? 'Cos it's KILLING me!" har har har) The only one home with me right now is the dog, and he's ignoring me in favour of a nap on his beanbag. Man's best friend, indeed.
I'm trying to get lots of rest today so that I'm in reasonable shape on Sunday, when Paul and I become godparents to our little cousin Marcus. I've never been a godmother before, and I'm sincerely hoping that the vicar won't ask me if I actually attend church or subscribe to any particular religion. Maybe I could mention that I have indeed been baptised and confirmed, and then say something like "Pardon? Coming!" and dash out the door. I envision the following:
Vicar: "Do you promise to help raise Marcus following the beliefs of the Church of England?"
Me: "Um. Yes?"
[All the lights go out, a loud clap of thunder is heard.]
Loud echoey disembodied male voice: "Pfffft!! As if!"
[A plague of locusts descends, completely ruining the afternoon's cream tea and annoying several relatives.]
In all seriousness, I am over the moon to be a godmother to this lovely little boy. His mum Gail is Jack's "guide mother" (we are heathens, remember?) and she purposely booked her son's christening to fall exactly a year after Jack's naming ceremony. Made me all weepy when she told me, it did. So here's hoping that the cold goes away, the locusts descend elsewhere, and the cream tea is enjoyed by all.