This morning there was rather a strange smell like the drains when I arrived at the G.D.s', both indoors and outdoors. Not exactly a stench, but not evocative of health and vitality either. I didn't feel it was really my place to raise the subject. Mr G.D. slept on through the odour and likewise the tennis on Sky Sports.
When I arrived home Isabelle was clutching the laptop and lying prone on the sofa bed, having folded it back into a sofa. Notification by e-mail had arrived confirming that her mother (60) had reached the roof of Africa yesterday (5895metres).
I finished the day half watching some fly-on-the-wall thing about fat people trying to walk from one end of the country to the other.
1 comment:
Are you sure Mr. G.D. isn't dead, and it was him you could smell?
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