Читать книгу William’s Progress - Matt Rudd - Страница 49

I have asked Isabel to start packing now for our incredibly ill-conceived trip to Devon on Saturday. She has agreed to do what she can.

This turns out to be very little because Jacob has a fever. Not a wink of sleep – not a single wink – mainly because I can’t stop myself taking his temperature every hour or so through the night to check it’s still only 99.8°C, not 101°C or 102°C. God forbid it gets to 102°C, even though Isabel phoned her doctor mum, who told her that babies get high temperatures and it doesn’t necessarily mean Jacob is going to die a horrible feverish death. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean’ is not good enough for me. He is still tiny. His little body shouldn’t have to have a temperature. I’m not taking any chances.