So the NHS nurse finally called back, listened to all Bobby's myriad symptoms, seemed rather horrified by their number and apparent un-relatedness, and said that he needed to see a doctor asap, so we should call our doctor's out-of-hours number. Only, when I dialed the number, it rang once and then went dead. Repeatedly. Luckily, I remembered having seen a sign on the practice door that named their after-hours service as "Thames Doc", so thanks to Google I was able find a number for them. When the doctor there finally phoned back, he was rather dismissive, and made me feel that I was being silly for worrying; gave all the same old common-sense advice about resting up, clear liquids, paracetamol and call again if he looks like he's about to die.

So Bobby has been in bed all day, looking dreadful and feeling (so he says) even worse.

But since he is staying at the same level of misery, I am assuming that seeing the doctor can wait till tomorrow.

I am thinking that we may well have to cancel the camping trip we'd planned for the end of next week; we were supposed to spending the 19th to the 23rd in the Peak District.

Yuck.