Going agley (or whatever the Welsh variation might be)

I had such plans for today.

It's St David's Day, of course, and the Resident Fan Boy picked up a generous bunch of daffodils yesterday. (Some years, they're scarce, but there's an abundance today.)

I headed into the cluster of shops near us and picked out two daffodil-bunches for Demeter: one opened and one nearly opened. "No bag," I told the cashier. "I'll just carry them to my mother like a kid heading home from school."

Demeter has whatever was laying me low a week ago, a nasty cluster of colly-wobbles and chills, seasoned with an afterglow of enervation.

When I got to her apartment, she'd become scary-sick, needing help to negotiate the trip to her ensuite bathroom, and refusing food, drink, and medication. That last item was particularly worrying, as she has the usual stack of medications required from a person her age. I stood over her and (gently, I swear!) persuaded her to take her morning pills, then controlled my panic as she nearly choked on them.

Spent the afternoon in her living room, staying within earshot, and ditching my plans to attend a St-David's-Day-themed cemetery tour. (Hey, you have your thrills; I have mine.)