“There’s going to be a civil war,” Jim complained. “It can’t be avoided.”
“You are even more miserable when you are ill, do you realise that?” Annabel complained.
They were both in bed with fevers and Olivia had come home to look after them.
“There’s nothing to eat in this house,” said Olivia, entering the room with a tray, on which she was balancing two steaming mugs of honey and ginger tea and two glasses of salty warm water.
“You can s*******r a chicken.”
“Are you mad? I’m not going to kill a chicken. Here you go, gargle your salt water, then you can have your tea.”
“Yes, mum,” Annabel joked.
“And save a bit to irrigate your noses.”
“Nice,” Jim groaned.
“And I couldn’t find the rosehip syrup.”
“Oh, never mind.”
“So, what are we going to have for dinner?”
“There are plenty o
