Another short trip to Henley-on-Thames with my boy. Just me, Frank and my friend, Anne.
After the shocking and so saddening news from last week I looked my fear in the eye and took Frank away for three nights in a B&B.
My reasoning being "Well, if it happens, it happens, I'll do my damnedest to prevent it, but will not give in and let it rule me".
Bravado before a fall?
Turns out the fear isn't so easy to dismiss.
No shit Sherlock!
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Henley is lovely, Severine is there and Frank and I already know and love the B&B and the family that run it (they put Brio trains out for him!).
It all sounds so great, hey?
But ... oh, the lack of sleep.
Maybe I just wasn't ready after the DIB story.
These things can creep into one's brain and fester.
With sole responsibility for Frank and with nerves still jangling I just couldn't sleep.
I tested and listened to breathing and tested again, finally falling into the arms of sleep around 4am and waking at 6am to check again and then doze until Frank bounded out of bed.
I thought a lot of Jen and her post a while ago where she declared something along the lines of "Oh, what's the point of even trying to sleep anyway?".
I was channelling Jen!
Then on our last day Frank got ill with a fever and spent all afternoon in bed.
I felt so frozen and yet somehow managed to sort out numbers for the nearest A&E and the Children's Unit with Jane, the landlady of the B&B.
She was fab but I felt so exposed and so very, very (more than usually) vulnerable.
I called Mr Muffinmoon and could barely string a sentence together.
My voice was tiny.
My sense of humour AOL.
I took a few deep breaths and after another sleepless night took him home.
I sleep better with Mr M fighting the D-Beast with me.
I will take Frank away again.
This much I know.
The rest I shall make up as I go along.
Right now, I am off to bed.
To sleep, oh boy, to sleep.
To sleep, oh boy, to sleep.


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