Today my brother and his fiancée (who are travelling in Thailand) posted a picture of a plaster cast, saying that she’d broken her leg and that the hospital were saying their travel insurance wouldn’t cover it.
I first heard about this from my mum, who phoned me, panicking. I rushed home from the supermarket to sort it all out (as I like to do), and only after sending a few messages to them to check that everything was ok did I remember the date.
Well, now I feel quite the April fool. I can’t decide if my mum realised it was a trick and decided to double trick me, which seems unlikely; although this is the woman who told me that Knightmare was real, and that people who didn’t make it out in one episode had to stay in there for the week. Childhood trauma, right there.
Sadly not a joke: there have been builders working in the flat beneath us for over a week now, spreading toxic fumes throughout the building and spending every day singing along to dubstep (turns out that’s both possible and deeply unpleasant).
Finishing on a positive note: Alfie has learnt to sew.
