Mrs Harling looked and sounded terrible; about 99 and shrunken inside a big padded gilet, with baggy red eyes, hollow cheeks and cracked voice. She insisted she was much better, having started on antibiotics all of yesterday, and perfectly capable of course to carry on with the lesson. Her friend Annette had carried her off, protesting all the way, to the doctor, after a week of feeling dreadful, 'razor blades in my throat; coughing all night so I couldn't sleep; unable to speak or swallow; streaming eyes and nose; a right pickle.'
The doctor had put her in her place.
GP: I'll just listen to your chest.
SH: There's nothing wrong with my chest.
GP: Do you want a job here?
and
GP: Have you been watching Downton Abbey?
SH: Yes.
GP: And Tea with Mussolini?
SH: I've seen it.
GP: You're in both of them.
SH: Pardon?
GP: The Maggie Smith character. Dowager Duchess type.
He also informed her she had tracheitis and acute sinusitis, so what she was doing taking hour-long adult lessons next day I don't know, except she adamantly insisted on doing so. Bored with being ill, I suppose.
I'm content again for a day or two, Sarah having sent me another international economics article to edit into more fluent English - except that nothing could turn the mathematical formulae in it into fluent anything. Also Vicky Keen sent back the Review article on Taxal School, saying she liked it but adding some amendments to be worked in. So I swung off down Whaley later, greeting everyone with a big smile or cheerful 'Sorry!', depending if I was in their way or not, and thinking how friendly the place was, instead of grey/mean/hard and noisy as it seems when I'm feeling down.
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