I’m not sure how my beloved could have gone camping, even if the weather had not conspired against all plans previously held.
Carole is really bad at being ill. She spent most of today attached to a duvet, either upstairs in bed or downstairs on the couch. One wonders how she would have coped being pathetic and ill in a sleeping bag. It doesn’t even sound antwhere near as cosy.
And when you’re coughing up human-sized chunks of phlegm, lying in a tent doesn’t seem to be the best place to do it. She makes enough fuss about running to the bathroom to eject such material, and she’s only across the hallway. I can only imagine the faff of her sprinting to a toilet block, leaping guy ropes with gay abandon
So despite her ruining all my plans for nude play and cheeky pizzas, I begrudgingly think its for the best she’s here.
I mean, as long as she stays away from me because I don’t bloomin’ want it!