Pynchon

Lorraine's home, but she's not very well. She's managed to pick up some kind of chest infection from one of her Brother's nippers. Serves her right for abandoning me and that evil monster of a cat for four and a half days.

She arrived just after I had finished Blogging. She appeared out of the wind and rain; stepdad Ian and missus Penny trailing in her wake. She was flustered, wet, red faced, sniffling, coughing and harassed.

"I'm not well!", she cried.

"What's up with you?", sez I.

"Are you deaf? Can't you hear my voice? I sound like Donald Duck."

"But, you always sound like Donald Duck."

Rapier wit! Fuck you Oscar Wilde!

Silence from Lorraine. It spoke volumes. Don't fuck with me when I'm dying.

I ran to the kitchen. I made tea for everybody.

Ian and Penny didn't stay long. They were just passing through this way and had given Lorraine a lift. When they had gone I cooked some food for Lorraine, who had collapsed into the big armchair and was helping herself to a big box of hankerchiefs. I smiled at her.

"Maybe later I can rub some Vic into your chests?"

Lorraine looked at me and I aged 20 years in a second. My hair turned white. My hands started to shake. I developed wrinkles under my eyes. My teeth fell out. My left eye filled with blood and started dripping goo onto my shirt.

Ah... Happy times. I'm glad she's home. I missed her.

She didn't go to work today. Strangely, everyone seemed kind of relieved...