A Brontonian moment today. Is Brontonian even a word, or like Shakespeare have I just created my own word to suit me needs? I am trying to describe a scene from a Bronte or Austen novel when the invalid is first brought downstairs after a near death experience. I wasn’t exactly carried downstairs, well for one, we no longer have stairs, except for the stone stairs leading to the top garden terrace and secondly, it has been a year or two since Mr FD was capable of carrying me anywhere. His defect not mine. It was more a scene of me shuffling in my terry towelling dressing gown down the hall and out to the patio.
None of that delicate lace handkerchief pressed to my lips for a genteel cough, either. I was more your earthy, cough your lungs out and gasp for air character. Augie threw in a burp just for good measure.
Augie Dog actually lead the way, more see to if there was any food to be had along the way than out of care for his mistress, but the plague ridden have few companions and so I wasn’t about to complain. A friend in any port, right now.
Son has the lawn looking like a bowling green and so the garden has all the feel of some great estate, as long as one kind of scrunches one’s eyes up and looks into the sun while tilting one’s head to the right. It was quite refreshing to have some fresh air and a different view after 10 days in my room. It was a very pleasant minute and a half.
Back inside I decided to sit upright and watch some television with the family and actually lasted an hour or so before stars commenced flashing before my eyes and I felt quite exhausted, so while I still could I shuffled in my terry towelling dressing gown back to bed, this time unaccompanied by Augie Dog as he was eye balling Mr FD who was eating his lunch. Mr FD’s lunch, not Augie’s, though I wouldn’t… no we won’t go there.
Exhausted by my escapades I napped for the next few hours. It’s all go, here in the country.