Sunday, January 25, 2009
Paul is sick. He has spent the day – his birthday, yet! - alternately vomiting, sleeping and doubling over with stomach cramps. I have spent it searching out the “pharmacy de garde” (The pharmacies cooperate to make sure that some are open on Sundays), reading the relevant chapters of Where There Is No Doctor, phoning around to find some antacids and making him a birthday dinner of – what else? – chicken soup.