Carole’s lost her voice. Completely.
Whatever has been ailing her for the past couple of days – some sort of Fringe flu, presumably – has consumed her very reason for being. She can’t talk. But she’s doing her best to still carry on.
And it couldn’t have come at a worse time – today she was supposed to be going to Leicester to do spacey things with Milly, but that didn’t happen. I had to take Milly to work with my instead, to give Caz an opportunity to rest her throat.
Tomorrow she’s off to a Tudor-style house near Liverpool with Milly, again, because Tudor-style houses are the absolute dogs bollocks as far as modern youth are concerned. And my mother. She’s going with my mother. So she has no voice, my mum is half blind and Milly will be bored by the exposed timbers within five or ten minutes. So that’ll be fun.
And then Thursday she’s off to the lakes, camping for the rest of the week. Because if there’s one thing which completely cures a sore throat, flu, lost voice style illness it’s sleeping in a tent in a damp field.
The thing is, though, since her voice went it’s almost as if she’s never had so much shit to talk about. She just can’t help herself. I keep telling her to shut up, but she’ll carry on squeaking through her day. Which is all well and good, but her lost voice is operating on a much higher frequency than her normal voice and it’s freaking Peppa out. Everytime Carole says – or tries to say something – Peppa’s ears fold back onto her head because she’s scared.
Carole – right now – is basically a human version of the cat scarer that my parents used to have on a stick in the garden.