Beaverboosh is unwell.
He exceeded his own standards of excess at my sister’s wedding on the weekend.
True to form, in his charming and erudite manner, he managed to insult almost everyone at the wedding with his ever so subtle rudeness. He’s such a flirt.
He consumed excess quantities of champagne, claret and cognac over a two day period, not to mention the marathon Marly light consumption.
He has not been able to speak for days. The gods have spoken. I am getting a bit of peace.
His prognosis is uncertain; he thinks he has swine flu. I am not sure about the flu bit.
I reassure him daily he will live. Men are such babies when they are ill.