Nanna!

Driving to Nanna's house today, because that's what Bud likes to do best on his 41st birthday. I'm taking the portrait book to add Nanna to the gallery, we'll pop in to Bud's work on the way back to see if the commercial arm of Santacorp has delivered anything there and then it's off to the Doc to stop this cough. I look forward to the same yellow medicine I've had for the last 3 winters, for the same reason.

This time we counted roundabouts (21), sheep transporters (3) and pile-ups (also 3). Nanna was pleased to see my book and the 'Bud falls down the toilet' sentence but after only a couple of hours it was time to get back in the car. On the fast bit by Brighton (ie no stopping place) my whopping whooping cough developed a dangerous gargle and I vomited into the tupperware container I was holding, filling it neatly with the processed remains of the food I'd just eaten from it. This at least prevented carseat contamination, a horror all my friends are sure to have met.

We nipped into Bud's work for me to use his getting-in badge on every door we passed, for him to pick up a package he didn't show me and for us to collaborate on a symbolic mural heavily encoded with secret knowledge to frustrate the evil desires of his workmates.
The Doc gave me exactly the same medicine as before, as expected.
At 7pm one of Bud's work friends came round to take him to the pub, they abandoned us to die of coughing together. In the Northcote Pub he met Molly's dad (another ex-nursery friend).