The B&G love opening letters . . . .
Those addressed to them. Those not. Bills, bank statements and junk mail. The Road Tax reminder for our house's previous owners, who - two-and-a-half years after moving - have still not informed the DVLA. It's all the same to them.
In the main, the contents of the correspondence in question tend to be ignored (or, in The G's case, torn into shreds). The postman delivered something this morning that cannot be overlooked (or destroyed), however . . . .
It's notification from our GP that The G is due to receive her next round of immunisations.
Next week. Gulp.
Tetanus, Polio, MMR et al, I appreciate that these are important. Yet the prospect still fills me with dread and a longing to start thinking up excuses.
The big needle, the fear (The G's, that is, not mine), the tears, and the risk of subsequent symptoms (tiredness, temperature and general grumpiness), this is not an occasion to relish. The G is oblivious at this point. She'll find out soon enough.
It's going to be important that, when she does, I remember that, no matter how bad it seems, this is going to be worse for her than it is for me.
But it's not going to be easy . . . .