Poor Meg is suffering from a poorly tummy. She wakes Dad to be let out at 03:30 this morning and stays out ages eating grass. By "proper" wake up time she's off food althogether, and ignores her breakfast, which is good news for me as I get to hoover it up when no-one's looking.
She sits on her bed looking pathetic, and with her abdomen making an interesting cacophony of squelches, belches and groans. This, you may recall, is called the Symphonia Gastrica in the local family humour. Megan is not amused, and is definitely feeling sorry for herself. Dad leaves paper down and alerts the Angel B to let her out for comfort stops "in case she explodes".
When dad gets back from work, Angel B reports that she has been sick, and now seems to be recovering. She greets Dad along with the rest of us as enthusiastically as normal, and then walks to her food bowl, noses it against the skirting board with a clunk, and stands back and gruffs at Dad, looking him in the eye as if to challenge him to pretend he doesn't get it!
She ate a hearty supper.
Go Meggie, and thanks for the breakfast
Deefski
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