Terry Fox Stadium for the city athletics event

Emerged from the shower to find Ottawacker Jr. up and about, Mrs. Ottawacker working, and a huge pile of cat vomit on the bed, just where my head had been until 10 minutes earlier. Charlie, the puking feline, was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ottawacker helped me strip the bed, and together we discovered that the vomit had gone all the way through to the protective undersheet. It, of course, meant everything had to be cleaned. Oh great.
 
Ottawacker Jr. was still clearly not well but was still clearly determined to go into school. He had the city athletics day and was representing the school. He wasn’t interested in staying home (which made me think he was worse than he claimed) but accepted a ride in from me, nonetheless. Him dropped off, I went to Farm Boy to hunt for Thanksgiving food.
 
Back home, the process of cleaning the sheets started up. Managed to get the first load in and washing, and then realised I had a 10:45am appointment at the doctors for a wart treatment. I got there on time (just) and was taken into the room. The nurse looked at my wart, rubbed it with a latex glove, peeled off the scab and said I was healed. I fell to my knees to give praise. No, I didn’t (there were no chicken livers involved). I merely said “that was quick,” accepted another appointment for a follow up in two weeks’ time, and drove home.
 
Then, Mrs. Ottawacker and I drove to Terry Fox fields to watch the athletics day. Despite his illness, Ottawacker Jr. did well enough, finishing 37th (city-wide) and ended with a final sprint that was quite impressive. I am all the more impressed as this is his own initiative, and he has improved himself significantly through his own efforts. He doesn’t get that from me… He was struggling afterwards though – and I got the inevitable call from school to tell me he had returned from the event and wasn’t feeling well. So, out I went again.
 
Then I did a bit of work, laughed to hear that England had lost at home to Greece, prepared dinner, and collapsed in a chair to sleep my way through a lamentable documentary on Mozart’s sister, the woman with quite possibly the worst hair do in history. She was, apparently, a brilliant and precocious musician. The documentary started off making claims that she had written some of his piano concertos – or had contributed to them at the very least. I started to pay attention, only switching off 10 minutes later when the lead investigator came out with the statement that, despite decades of research, there was absolutely no evidence to support this claim. The rest of the documentary was, according to Mrs. Ottawacker, televisual click bait.