Yesterday I ran 6k (the furthest since my heart attack, which I was pleased with).

This morning when I woke up I felt tired and hadn’t slept well. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my dad – and especially not his friends. They’re nice people, but not easy for me to be around. Dad uses up my spoons, and they drain me in fistfuls.

As I drove through the rain from Southampton to Bristol I just felt more tired. I stopped for a coffee to perk me up. It helped a little.

At dad’s house we chatted for a while. I had another coffee with a load of sugar. Then I drove him round the corner to the local for him to have a few pints, and for me to have more coffee and some lunch.

His friends weren’t coming (blessed relief), so I actually had a lovely time with my dad, as he recounted old stories. He actually (well, mostly) listened to my decorating trials and my drain woes – even offering to pay for it. I declined because it could be about ten-grand, which shocked him.

Worryingly, I was sneezing and coughing and my nose started streaming.

Shit.

A cold – not over-exercise: I would not want to be taking my seventy-two year old dad a cold.

The drive home was sheer misery. My nose streaming, the rain teeming, the spray from the vehicles on the motorway blinding.

I had to stop for another coffee.

I saw a message from my husband: he was trying to print a letter to the doctor about his prescription mix-ups, would I go around. Yes, I said, a flying visit.

An hour later and I have a copy printed, but could not repeat the trick.

And I don’t think I should have gone because this cold was become a torrent of snot.

Back at the house, fed and then walked the dog in the rain. Would she poop? Nope!

I wanted to scream.

Nothing too difficult today, but somehow it all felt overwhelming.

And the dog has stolen my cheese for me tea.

We have had words.