Poor Gingie!

Boo hoo! Poor me!
One sign that I'm getting older is a compulsive desire to tell people about my ailments. Barrelling through my twenties, I pushed all my aches and pains aside (how many people can boast that they gave themselves a black eye by falling headfirst into a toilet bowl? Not many. But it's a story from my twenties that I brushed aside with bravura - nowadays a similar mishap would leave me in a crumpled heap, but back then I carried my war wounds with pride.) Anyway, one of the advantages of having a blog is that you can bore your readers (all two of you, not including my Gingerbread Daddy and Mammy) to death with blow-by-blow details of my Wehwehchen (as the Germans call these little woes).

In short (and it pains me to shorten my litany of afflictions), after a week in bed with a sore throat, I ended up in hospital over the weekend with a throat abscess. Hooked up to a drip (see picture to the right of my poor hand, battered from the infusion needle), I lay in bed and tried to crochet by not moving my left hand. It was challenging, but I managed it. And every nurse who came in had a look at my green Kitties in a Row blanket and admired my ... knitting.
Oh, well.