Urgh. I don't want to go on about it, but I'm ill. My body feels weak and my throat is on fire; when I stand up the blood rushes upstream and makes my head spin. Weirdly, I feel totally normal while eating, but other than that, I'm very much not myself.
It started yesterday in Farnham. I have a niece who lives in Aldershot and so we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to spend the day with her in Farnham, checking out the charity shops and finishing with a meal at Pizza Express. For the record, Pizza Express was not my idea; I'm still a bit furious with them for not understanding the definition of an available table.
So, we met up with Suzie. She took us to the Vintage Cake Shop, which is essentially a retro tea-house. There were frilly cabinets, fairy lights, china tea pots and gold-edged mirrors. An old fashioned sewing machine sat delicately in the window, lace tumbling artistically from its needle-plate. We all sat in the white-painted wooden chairs and ordered tea. I had a pot of darjeeling.
"What's with the pinkie?" asked Suzie.
"I beg your pardon?" I said. She pinched her forefinger and thumb together and waggled her little finger. I hadn't even realised I was doing that.
"Just habit, I guess," I said, smiling. In truth the cup I'd been given was so small it was almost impossible to lift it by the handle without balancing the weight with my little finger. I began to wonder whether that's how this whole delicate tea-drinking method began in the first place. Just as I let my mind wander around the room, surveying the guests of the Vintage Cake Shop and wondering what kind of person wears yellow trousers, and how weird noses are, it was time to go.
A little while later, we were looking at objets d'art in the fanciest curio shop I have ever seen. It was packed with art deco lamps and wing-backed chairs, with grandfather clocks and fancy ornaments.
"I could see you with a clock like that," said my Mum, admiring a pendulum clock, swinging elegantly behind a curved glass case. I looked at the price tag, dangling from the chimes. It was £3,999. I told her it was unlikely that she would. We backed out carefully.
Farnham is a really interesting little place. The steep high street is full of little shops with old-fashioned windows. Estate agents show brightly lit boards of Georgian mansions and exquisite country houses; snooty-looking establishments display headless mannequins wearing tweed jackets and mustard-coloured shirts over smart brogues and expensive cravats. It's all rather... well-to-do. Even the charity shops seemed a little more up-market than the ones back home.
We crowded into Pizza Express. It seemed to be crammed with noisy children throwing balloons about, so thankfully the host sent us up to a room with just one long wooden table, surrounded by ten comfortable looking chairs. I threw my coat over the back of one and sat down to peruse the menu.
It was nice to do something fun with my family - especially at the moment. All the tension of the last few months seemed miles away, left trapped in Reading where it couldn't reach us up there on the first floor of Pizza Express. I was just thankful that nobody asked The Christmas Question.
My sister poured the last drops of Merlot into my glass and I sipped it carefully. It was about then, full of food and thinking of sleep, that I realised my throat was feeling a bit funny. By the time we'd divvied up the bill, said our chilly goodbyes and got back to the car, I was shuddering with more than September chills.
"I feel a bit woozy," I said to my Mum as she pulled out of the car park.
"Probably the Merlot," she said.
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