I like being paid attention to. But recently, I realised that I only enjoyed it when I felt in control of the story. Otherwise, it sets off my anglophile upbringing of deflection and murmured, “Oh, no, no. Not me.” Not feeling well makes me feel particularly vulnerable.

The threatened cold has finally landed on me. Feeling this crappy generally turns me into a bear–which works, as I am now wrapped in a fuzzy, brown dressing gown with a bear on the hood–asking only for food and books and tea and snacks to be shoved at me at regular intervals.

To have someone to be able to turn to so that I do not have to haul my growly-bear self out and deal with people is such a wonderful thing. That Sir does it is lovely.


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