Off to London tomorrow for a few days, at short notice. Baby E's parents both have work commitments, and poor Baby E is unable to go to the nursery he usually attends twice a week, because....
....he has chickenpox.
This possibility had occurred to me the moment I clapped eyes on him when he arrived in Italy, as I always think there is a distinctive 'look' with chickenpox, a sort of washed-out shabby greyness. I'd even asked L if she'd had it before, knowing that we all had. But Baby E remained spot-free. After his return home, he started producing the distinctive blisters, and while far less unwell than earlier, is still under the weather.
The cavalry, aka Grandma, has been called for, and has responded with alacrity. I look forward to having him all to myself during the day.
The Gardener will hold the fort here, although as his cold carries on making him miserable, I'm on the alert for tell-tale spots appearing on him too. So far so good. One Spotty Herbert in the family is enough at any one time.
It's at times like this that we wish we lived closer, but then where would Baby E come for his seaside holidays?