Tomorrow is Friday. Which means I have only one day to go until I see Frank.
I haven't seen Frank for three and a half weeks. I can't help but think that something might go wrong.
His little car might break down ... or worse still I might contract the chicken pox.
Like poor Phoebe in that television programme about six aquaintances who live in some very expensive apartments in New York.
Her submariner man friend comes to see her for the first time in eight months.
She's super excited but then a small child with two mothers, and one neurotic father, contracts the pox!
Phoebe, alas, is the only one who has not buffed up her immune system to handle that childhood virus.
The plans she had for her man friend are ruined.
They spend the weekend incessantly scratching each other, and are forced to wear comedy oven mitts taped on to their wrists.
What a rubbish way to spend his first weekend above sea.
I've already had the chicken pox so I might be alright. But I will be using a lot of antibacterial gel tomorrow to stop the germies from invading.
I will not be poorly, Frank. I promise.
