Read Summer Daydreams for Free Online Page B

After that I go and chivvy Olly out of our bed.
    ‘I’m not feeling that great myself,’ he moans.
    He does look a little peaky but I’ve no time to be sympathetic to man-illness now. Has he actually been sick? No. I’m afraid that Olly will just have to get on with it.
    ‘Take her temperature regularly,’ I instruct. ‘If she doesn’t look like she’s getting any better by mid-morning, call the doctor.’
    ‘You’re still going into college?’ he asks.
    ‘Of course.’ That shouldn’t even be a question. What else can I do? I bite down my impatience. ‘I have to, Olly. How can I miss my very first day?’
    He groans and sways a bit. Now I think he’s putting it on. ‘How can you leave us?’
    ‘I’ll call Constance. She’ll come up and sit with you for a couple of hours.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. I swear he’s putting that croak in his voice. ‘We’ll manage.’
    ‘It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour bug,’ I assure him. I rack my brain to remember what we had for dinner last night and whether I’ve poisoned them both by giving them something to eat that was past its sell-by date. But we just had oven chips and fried eggs, so I think I’m in the clear.
    Stripping the bed, I put on clean sheets while Olly has a shower. I grit my teeth as much groaning emanates from the bathroom. By rights, it’s me who should be in there now. This was my master plan. Instead, I carry the sheets downstairs to put them in the washing machine, but when I eventually reach the kitchen, a bloodbath awaits me.
    ‘Oh, no. Not today! Dude, what’s happened?’
    The dog bounces up and down, so pleased to see me and, therefore, puts more bloody footprints on the kitchen floor. On the work surface, the biscuit jar is up-ended and there seem to be more than a few missing. It seems that Dude’s attempts to have a biscuit frenzy also led him to upset the knife block and judging by the blood trail, it looks as if he’s cut his paw on one of the knives. Bending down to examine it, I get licked all over my face for my trouble.
    ‘Oh, Dude. Look at you.’ Manhandling my pooch, I manage to see that the cut doesn’t look too bad in relation to the amount of blood he’s managed to daub round the kitchen. More licking interspersed with whimpering.
    With a new J cloth, I bathe his paw and conclude, thankfully, that it doesn’t need stitches. A vet’s bill on top of everything else would finish us off. I’ve had to spend a hundred and fifty quid on the list of required materials to take in with me to college – something I perhaps should have expected, but hadn’t.
    I tie Dude to the back door handle with his lead, while I set about mopping the floor with disinfectant and wiping down all the surfaces that have been customised with red paw prints. By now, according to Plan A, I should be sitting down to watch a relaxing ten minutes of Daybreak with my cup of tea and my bowl of Lidl muesli. Fat chance.
    When I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen, I throw the dirty sheets and the two sicky pairs of Petal’s pyjamas into the washing machine before realising that I ran out of washing powder yesterday. I’ll have to pop out in my lunch hour to get some. I release Dude from the door handle and feed him, then I find a bandage in the first aid drawer, which is always wellstocked due to Petal’s propensity for walking into things, falling over them, having them drop on her from a great height. I wind it round Dude’s paw knowing full well that it will be chewed off in five minutes flat.
    I quickly make a sandwich – no disasters there – so that I can cut costs by avoiding the student canteen. Then, with the frantic realisation that time is running out, I dash upstairs to run round the shower.
    Olly is back in bed and Petal is beside him. ‘We’re going to stay here,’ he tells me. ‘Until we’re better.’
    Marvellous, I think uncharitably. Bloody marvellous.
    In the shower, no hot water left. Typical. All