Now, what would Samuel Pepys make of all this?

Today’s big adventure revolved around taking Ottawacker Jr. to the doctor’s, so that her nurse could pump him full of whatever vaccine a 12-year-old boy needs to be receiving at this moment in time. We are no doubt ahead of the game, but, quite frankly, I’d much rather be ahead of the game at this moment in time than be caught off guard because the Orange One has decided that no more medicines shall cross the border or his Mikadoed sidekick loses the nuclear codes on whatever Signal chat he happens to be on at the moment. I’m not sure if the vaccines Ottawacker Jr. received will protect against fallout or strontium poisoning, but if the Pope can die five minutes after meeting Nanki-Poo, then what chance do mere mortals have. I should have asked for a few preventative needles myself.
 
Post-vaccine, during which, once again, Ottawacker Jr. refused to scream, I took him for lunch at Adam's Sausages near the train tracks. We sat and ate the Polish sausage-in-a-bun with sauerkraut and onions in the glorious sunshine (we were in the sunshine, it wasn’t a necessity for the Polish sausage-in-a-bun with sauerkraut and onions), and chit-chatted about this and that. He is on good form at the moment. That’s unfair, he’s usually on good form – it’s me that isn’t.
 
I dropped him back at school and then came home to do some administrative chores. (These revolve around finances, taxes, and chasing up recalcitrant medical practitioners, in case you think you are dealing with a Samuel Pepys wannabe and think I have slipped in a code phrase for a quick visit to the bathroom with a rolled-up copy of Hugh Hefner’s finest. “I’m just going to do some quick administrative chores, love, see you in half an hour.”) (Mind you, at my age…)
 
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. After that, I awaited Ottawacker Jr.’s return, sat and watched “All Round Champion” with him, cheering on a little too volubly Rebecca, who is 16 and has an artificial leg, and then drove him to his soccer practice at Franco-Cité. There, I chatted briefly with his coach Dele, then signed a playing-up form for him, drove back, prepared dinner for his return, confirmed with Mrs. Ottawacker that she would pick him up from practice, came upstairs to catch up on my blips, and then promptly went back downstairs because I fancied a large Ricard. Dinner is once again pork chops in the tajine, but this time I have not held back on the harissa paste.
 
The Ricard is sensational. A drink after a long hiatus is one of life’s great pleasures. It’s so good, I might go and do some more administrative work…