This weekend just past, I planned to go to Wineborough to deal with some legal issues for my stepmum’s will. It turned into something far different from that.
I arrived, after driving in the dark (I don’t like driving in the dark, but I did it,) to be told by my Mum that a dear friend of mine had died. That was a big shock. I’d known him since we were teenagers, he moved up from Westport to work on the Amaltal boats, but we became good friends, and over the years we would get in touch and lose touch, but we always had a laugh when we caught up.
I got the legal stuff sorted, and even visited Dad, and Mum and I planned to spend Saturday together, which involved a lot of op-shopping.
Except Mum woke up on Saturday morning, and decided that she should do a Covid test, and for the first time, Mum had covid. She didn’t want me to stay, in case I got it too, but I would have been happy to stay for her too.
Disappointed, I drove back to Motropolis, having hots and colds, headachy – I was almost convinced that I had Covid by the time I got home.
By 6am on Sunday morning, I was so convinced, that I tested myself for Covid – negative, but I have a cough and a rough throat, so if it isn’t covid, I have a cold.
This would have to be a weekend from hell, that can only mean that the rest of the month will improve, right?