In Which Pither Hits An All Time Low

I've got fleas!

There, I've said it. The truth is out there.

The Almighty - not content with smoting me on a daily basis, banishing my hair from the place in which it once was, making my body as three, realigning my teeth and taking many to sit at his right hand - hath sent a new plague to test me.

Ok, so I'm not being strictly accurate, in biological terms. You see, it's actually Dave who has fleas. He didn't tell me about it and I didn't realise - until this morning.
The dog flea - or Ctenocephalides canis, if you're Italian - is host specific (if I remember things I was once taught) and so does not take up permanent residence on other species. It does, however, go on brief holidays and have days out and, as Dave sleeps on the bed with me, said flea's access to a new continent full of delights is a mere hop away.


I woke up today bitten to buggery! I thought, at first, that there had been an influx of mozzies in the night, sleeping as I do with the French windowns open. Then I noticed young Dave, contorting himself, back legs up round his ears, scratching like a queue at a clap clinic. Oh dear! Looks like my weekend is mapped out for me. Delousing will be the order of the day and a flea shampoo bath is in the offing - for both of us!

Anyway, I care not. You see, I am on holiday now for a week. Hurrah! In fact, such is my holiday mood that I popped out last night to celebrate my hols by having a couple of dry sherries at the Kebab and Calculator. I was medivacced out at 9pm and hit the hay soon afterwards.
I awoke, as usual, at 5am, and fed the dogs, fed the birds, fed the fish - and then fed myself. I found a pizza on the kitchen table. I have no recollection of ordering it - but there it was, and breakfast was sorted. Now that's a nutritionally balanced start to the day.
Trouble is, I then decided to go back to bed, being the first day of my holiday, 'n' all. I have just woken up again...............at 4pm!!!!! That has to be some sort of record. I haven't done that since I was a teenager (like a lot of things).

Part of me feels really guilty, really disgusted, really ashamed. The other part of me feels proud, contented and as though I have done exactly what I should have done. No doubt the battle of consciences will resolve itself shortly.

So, what to do? Well, I vaguely remember from last night that my pals The Farmer and Tomato Head were popping out for a livener today at around teatime and that seems a splendid plan. God, I just love holidays.

Fleas can go to Grantham, but nothing else.