Cherries, aerobics and 'Whose Line...?'

I have been surviving my own particular brand of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with varying degrees of success today (repeat prescription nil,  aerobics bonus session, one) and have ended up just about on top.  Thanks in part to a cancellation from a meet-ee which gave me time to do aerobics again. (Hurrah; I defy anyone to say I am not keeping the figure of a twenty five year old!)  As well as an added bit of success in getting through my 'to do' list.  At least a bit.  

It rained all morning, in a surprisingly London-like way and I struggled to stay awake through my first meeting, but thankfully I managed to cheer myself up later by buying some delicious cherries from the woman on the corner.  So all is not lost.

As for the precariousness of my conversations and correspondence with the architect, it would seem things have improved there too.  I had been so worried last night that I needed the light relief of 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?' to watch before bedtime to help me get to sleep.  Somehow one look at Colin Mochrie being a penguin, gulping down some fish, or twisting out of an odd stage prop like a cobra being charmed out of its basket and suddenly, nothing seems all that scary anymore.  God bless that man.  He deserves some kind of 'lifetime award of achievement' for cheering people up.

However, poor boy, the architect has a cold.  He came to meet me this evening after I managed to print out some things he needed for a trip tomorrow.  He had the snuffles and a sore throat.  He looked sheepish.  Not to mention a bit green at the gills.  He asked me if I still wanted to go on holiday with him.  I had been expecting him to dictate that he would go on his own, at least for part of the week, but now he was trying to see if I was still interested in spending time with him.  You'd think I had been some kind of unfeeling ice queen (which I can be sometimes, but not often) and yet I was the one to have written all sorts of reassurances and extra affection in an email, and he'd written matter-of-factly in every bit of correspondence he'd recently sent.

Oh how fragile and delicate the precious male ego is.  Who'd have thought it, eh?  One hint of an area of difference, a possibility of a lack of agreement and he's instantly fearing I'll run off with a lawyer.  The poor little flower.  I suppose we both need a dose of 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?' and I shall administer it to him as soon as he gets back.  They should make it available as a prescribed treatment for stress and fatigue on the NHS.