Heavenly Beverley : Kate's Coronavirus Crash!

Yesterday morning, I rose from the Inner Sanctum with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever. We were on a time schedule so sleeping further was not an option. We were very much looking forward to reacquainting ourselves with the newly married Podiatrist to the Stars, Laura and her Most Efficient Manager and Husband Courtney. Even the dream of all the pampering Laura would be giving our feet wasn't enough to stir my excitement.

I was suffering from an extreme case of Failure to Launch. I was about as responsive as Shaun when he first ignored the zombie apocalypse occurring around him.

So, I battled on to get ready. A long shower, which ran us late, failed to provide the cheery spring of energy that I hoped. We set off for York on a grey and sullen morning that mirrored my feelings perfectly.

The podiatry sessions were wonderful. I had forgotten how much we missed them. Laura's snipping and shaping of de toenails were followed by de fearless precision of de scalpel, de grinding disk and de massage of de feet with de fabulous foot balm. My feet became a New Woman. Pity about the rest of me.

We drove home very quietly. Michael's stomach was growling. Whilst dealing with the carnage of chewed plastic throughout our bedroom and the removal of inordinate quantities of dog and cat hair within our bed, I struggled on. Once the bedroom had resumed a state of relative tidiness, I suggested a few quick suggestions for Michael's lunch, politely told him to get stuffed and retired to the boudoir with all the gleeful relish of a career hypochondriac.

I didn't fall into immediately slumber, much to my disappointment. The addition of a couple of blankets did the trick. I was aware of activity within the house but nothing was going to rouse me until I was bloody well ready.

Finally, after three hours, I was replete. Feeling far more human, I wandered out into the living room. Michael was on the point of ejecting the printer through the nearest window, as that device and his laptop were both refusing to play nicely and scan some of his ancient photos.

I soothed the savage beast, produced a cup of afternoon coffee and Anzac biscuits and took over the scanning. An hour later, my laptop, the printer and I had scanned the requisite photographs (in order as requested by His Majesty), popped them onto a trusty thumb drive and delivered them into the appropriate location in Michael's computer.

All returned to being well in our world. All the chores I'd hoped to achieve would live to fight another day. The rest of the evening passed most pleasantly and after a dose of the delicious Hamish Macdonald on Q+A, I was ready for further nigh-nighs.

This morning, I am not suffering from that unwelcome shadow of exhaustion. I have performed some less-than-rivetting but essential services. The dishwasher has been emptied, the washing machine filled. I look stunning in my blue and white spotted dressing gown. Michael has just emerged from our bedroom and is preparing his coffee. I am about to take advantage of the lack of precipitation and walk the canine clowns.

So what caused yesterday's affliction? I would suggest a combination of ever-present anxiety, disturbed sleep over several nights due to Pip's pervasive reverse sneezing and one memorable recent nocturnal episode which involved Michael, an over-supply of vino and the reappearance of a bloke I call Obnoxious Man, who thankfully, only surfaces once in a blue moon now.

Enough chat. Time to saddle up the dogs and expend some of their boundless energy.

Stay safe!