It’s Sunday, 12:23am. I’ve just got home from the hospital. Alone. Missed a few calls from people who don’t know/forgot the other phone number I have at the moment. Sorry Crumpet+Mr K. Sorry Andrea.
In 5 minutes from now, I will wander outside to put George in his Little Black Box for a few hours, to keep the neighboours happy, and then retire to bed alone. But it will be for the last time.
K and the Harv are coming home tomorrow morning. His jaundice isn’t too bad, and he’s feeding well, and everyone is happy with his progress. So I will return tomorrow morning, to collect him and his mother from their little room, and I shall bring them home. To this house. To this garden. To these chickens, this open space, and to our future.
Here begins the next stage.
(Don’t get me wrong though; the hospital and all the people there have been exceptionally brilliant. From Peter the obstetrician right through to Peter, the guy who pushed K’s trolley to the operating suite. Each and every person has been positive, helpful, encouraging, and thoughful. We’ve had the best help we could ask for. We just want to come home. Stand on our own feet. And introduce the Harv-ster to his life)