Harold’s pain has got worse. He’s lying on the sofa apparently in agony. I tried to get him to stay in bed but he refused and staggered about trying to get dressed until he admitted defeat when his trousers refused to be done up.
It’s not that he’s put on weight or anything. They literally refuse to close. He does them up (lying flat on his back because the pain he’s in won’t allow him to put them on standing) and as soon as he takes his hand away they unbutton again. That’s the last time I advise someone to purchase semi-sentient leatherwear.
He wanted to go into work. “I’ve never had a day off sick in my life,” he says. “You have now,” I told him. “Watch a bit of telly, eat something bad for you. Indulge in a bit of sloth.”
How was I to know you could order live animals on the internet? I just hope they taste better than the look.
Felicia offered to do my laundry for me today. I normally get the imps to do it but since she offered so nicely I gave all twelve bags. It was a gesture of goodwill on my part really. Ever since I developed a relationship with Julie she’s been the troublesome sister; always wanting to know where we are and what we’re doing. I keep telling her that I can look after us – six centuries of life teaches you a thing or two about the world – but she insists on acting like a mother hen, just because Julie’s blind to the mortal world.
I think she’s jealous.
Perhaps her offer of doing my washing was just a ploy to lose some of my socks. I sincerely hope not. I’ve had some of them for so long they they’ve developed personalities of their own and they’d be devastated to lose their life partner.
I’ve given in. I hate to see Harold like this. He’s so demanding. “Jasfoup? Will you plump up my pillows? Jasfoup? Will you make me a sandwich? Jasfoup? will you press the button on the TV remote?”
I know I told him to be a bit more selfish, but I didn’t mean at my expense. It’s so wearing that I almost did one of the tasks myself instead of delegating.
I spent another hour unpicking the skeins of magic that bound the poppet to Julie and re-established its connection to Harold. Julie was livid when the full force of PMS returned and told me to go and order up an incubus when I suggested it was time for bed at half-past six. I think she meant succubus. I haven’t required the services of an incubus since I took Harold on as a protégé.
Harold’s up and about again, thank Belphegor. He managed the last hour in the shop; enough to set the imps to work and do a stockcheck and now he’s back to his usual self. I am amazed at how well this poppet performs in protecting him. I’d like to shake the hand of whoever made it.
Now I have to work out what’s causing him the pain. I know it’s nothing physical – the vampire blood in him would take care of that – so it must be something in the air, or something in the ether. Whatever it is, everyone else seems to be fine, so it’s only targeting him.
I just have to find out who dislikes him enough to try to make his life a misery. This might be tough.
At least half the planet doesn’t know him. That narrows it down.