I haven't been sick in one week and three days. I've kept count because I know that at some point certain best mates of certain husbands will drag in some disgusting, vile thing, which will ruin the entire experience of not heaving every bloody day.
That lovely information aside, I began reading the, hm, series of books named after my son the other day. Best way to find out what the boy's been up to for the past 16 years since he doesn't deem it necessary to tell me otherwise.
I was rummaging through a pile of old schoolthings which were in the attic and found a box of letters I wrote during my sixth year which, oddly enough, never found their way to their recipients.
Alice was such a sweetheart. I heard what happened to her and Frank. I never would have imagined it, but then, I suppose I never would have imagined myself and James dead.
Hm. I believe I'm hungry again. If I'm lucky James and Black will have left me a sandwich in the refrigerator. Although knowing how much Black eats while he's whinging about his family like an emotional hippogriff giving birth to sextuplets, I haven't much hope.