Fever pitch

Despite last week's tears, I'm happy to say I kept my cool Monday morning when I dropped Jack off at nursery to set off for my first day back at the BBC. My pass card wasn't activated, my computer login didn't work, but I got online and settled blissfully into the task of cooking up story ideas, writing briefs on naughty Tory ladies and investigating whether Alice Cooper does or does not have anything interesting to say (verdict: he does not). Is it bad that I took so much pleasure being back in the office? Maybe. But I've definitely taken greater pleasure in worse.

About an hour in, however, I got a call from the nursery. Jack was running a fever and they were asking for permission to dose him up with some Calpol. I granted permission, shook off the shaky feeling and got back to work. Two hours later, they called again. His fever had gone up and someone had to go get him. I wondered if maybe it was abandonment fever, but conceded that in all likelihood, it was a bug or teething. Lucky for both of us, Daddy was able to come to the rescue. I didn't see my sick boy until I got home around 7.

He's hanging in there. Still grouchy and lethargic, but a trip to the doctor this evening confirmed there's nothing really scary afoot. 

But I guess there was one person who had to deal with something really scary... The woman who, when I called this morning to say I couldn't make my osteo appointment due to the screaming babe, asked me if I'd tried feeding him. That was a poor, mother's-wrath-incurring statement. But lucky for her, it's actually impossible to rip someone's face off over the phone.