We had plans to hit Westfield London today.  Every couple of months it calls out to me.  It says “Come and visit! Spend the day browsing the wondrous shops.  Wish for handbags and jewellery you can’t afford in The Village.  Have a tasty lunch in our food-hall-of-glory.  Drool over the latest pretty gadgets in the Apple Store.  Leave, having made some hugely necessary purchases and be safe in the knowledge you’ll do it all again soon…” So today, I was going to satisfy that craving.

Mainly, we were going because Ross has a couple of potentially very interesting meetings next week, and wanted a new pair of jeans (skinny jeans if you please) and possibly a couple of new shirts to wear.  His current jeans are worn through at the knees from hours spent playing with Ruby and Darcy.  And since buying them, he’s lost a fair few lbs and now they hang off him.

But instead, we are having a duvet day.  I woke up this morning to some sad little sobs coming from Ruby’s room.  On investigation it became very apparent she hadn’t managed to digest her dinner from last night, and it was now all over her bedding and herself.  My poor little girl is not a well bunny.

“Oh NO, Mummy” she wailed, looking very sorry for herself.  The next half an hour was spent cleaning her up, being the Chief Distributor of Cuddles and trying to prize a vomit soaked favourite toy from her grip to load, alongside bedding, jim jams and a quilt, into the washing machine.

She looks well enough, and isn’t listless or particularly sleepy, but she isn’t keeping anything down, not even the blandest of the bland Ryvita.  Not even water.

So today, the sofa is where we are staying.  Camped out with blankets, a big jug incase we can’t make it to the bathroom, Cbeebies, Lady Gaga on iTunes, sippy cups of tepid water and later on, when she’s feeling a little bit better, bland snacks.

Poor little Rhubarbs! I hope she’s better soon.