Well, the sore throat has gone. The pain in the neck has (almost)gone. And Vince has gone!
His mission of mercy could not have been better timed. I had been seriously close to losing the proverbial It. As he said, sometimes your body just tells you to stop, and I'd been ignoring its little yelps. How do you stop when everyone wants a garden, anyway? So one thing at a time, new motto. And I always have a black furry shoulder to lean on. Not as broad as Vince's, but still comforting.
There was eating and drinking and a memorable trip to Hell, I mean Coney Island, all about which, later. For now, he flies West, and for now he remains the most loved and welcomed visitor that Estorbo and I know.
Oh. And for the security people who confiscated this afternoon Vince's one jar of redcurrant and other of black raspberry jam - they are SO not liquids, dudes! I hope you are eating them. I did not make them to be thrown away. Local fruit, local labour. Ay. Could you not at least have fed a spoonful to a test beagle to see if he would have blown up?