As luck would have it, the thaumatologist is diagnosed with viral pneumonia for the holidays, necessitating a change in plans at every level of magnification.
On the plus side, the thaumatologist’s parents just got two new sofas, so the thaumatologist can flop on new furniture for the next four weeks.
On the minus side, the thaumatologist and the thaumatologist’s sister had to listen to their father, who has an out-of-order lumbar disc, try to organize their mother and their grandfather to move the sofas: 1.5 old sofas out, 0.5 old sofas upstairs to the thaumatologist’s room, 2 new sofas in, until he finally gave up and took an end of a sofa, which however didn’t stop him yelling things like, No, turn it so it goes through the door the skinny way, it’s too wide to go through the fat way, or, No, your end first, not my end first, or, You’re pushing me down the cellar stairs, and other common bulky furniture-moving phrases.
The thaumatologist is probably happy the weekend is over and she has the house to herself for a while.
I trust the thaumatologist is on the road to recovery. But the important question remains – can the thaumatologist thrust three thousand thistles through the thick of her thumb, the way Theophilis Thadeus Thistledown did while sifting a sieve-full of unsifted thistles, or perhaps even thrice three thousand thistles…
My mother used to like this tongue twister, but I hadn’t heard it, nor thought about it, since I was two or three or maybe four years old; probably a good thing. However, I woke up this morning with this thing going through my head…
I sincerely wish the thaumatologist recovers soon.