Sunday

Betsy had a few ups and downs in the night but nothing as up as 40 again.

In the morning she was sitting up and telling us what she remembered about last night; the penalty shoot out and the final score of the Brazil game, being carried upstairs, me calling Jeremy, choking over soluble paracetamol. Luckily not so much about begging for a cover and me saying no, shivering and me only closing the window because it actually began to rain on her, and then piling ice packs on her head and feet.

She was supposed to be at yet another rehearsal this morning and a performance of an abridged version of the play at the local arts centre but I said she wasn't well enough, much to her disappointment.

Instead she lay on the sofa all day, temperature going up and down, dozing then waking up again.

We watched an SMP, Whale Rider. I loved it.

Al did lots & lots of homework. He has to do a project over four weeks and has chosen to write about Dyslexia.

More football in the evening. God it's boring. The penalty shoot out last night was good fun, don't see why they don't just do that instead and cut out all the tedious matches. The whole thing could be done in about three days.

I'm also heartily sick of the constant close-ups of gorgeous women in tight t-shits in the crowd. They must have s crew dedicated to it. They never show a close-up of a good looking man. Or an ugly one for that matter.