Piglet got an early start on Hallowe'en by shitting blood. Which was certainly something. It meant I got to spend the majority of Daddy-Daughter Saturday in junior A&E. She's apparently fine, but there's a chance we're going to get a call from Public Health England in a couple of days to quarantine the neighbourhood.

More than we're already quarantined.

Well, if we're quarantined. Maybe gyms are open. Unless it's car boot sales. At least our MP, Chi Onwurah is posting sense and we can check that grandparents are allowed, even in tier 3. As for the other lot...

Back to Piglet, she'd not cleared last week's illness. Grandparents had been willing to risk their floors and let her play nappy-less, much to her delight. The GP suggested it might be transient lactose intolerance and she went dairy free for the week. Including an involuntary wean, which wasn't a popular decision.

The upset stomach has meant that the wash loads are split into lights , darks, nappies and things-that-aren't-nappies-but-are-still-covered-in-shit.

With the blood waiting till Saturday to show up, I got to ring 111 instead of the GP. The script they're given isn't the operators fault. But the first question after being on hold for over half an hour; "Is she still breathing?"

I thought,

"No, she's not. That's why I skipped first aid or calling 999 in favour of listening to your hold messages for the afternoon"

But I said,

"Yes"

For all my grousing, she looks to be fine. And her buddy from nursery has Covid. So a few weeks of loose stools is far from the worst thing. And The Chef and I have a library of poo pictures to remember this week by.

We're finishing the week off with another of Anna Del Conte's tasty meals, some questionable North Macedonian wine and an attempt to tally Piglet's vocabulary.

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