The blogging blackout is finally over and My God I’m glad. Given that I don’t do yoga, zumba or ganja, blogging is my only release. These last few days of inactivity have been torture. Instead of quietly blogging away and letting off steam, I have been gagged by technology and Husband has irritated me to the extent that I’ve spent a week researching bear traps online.
It’s been a really shit few days.
Husband is ill; He thinks he has the flu, I think it’s a cold because if it was the flu he wouldn’t be putting up martyr shelves in the hope of a sympathy shag.
If I so much as roll my eyes when he groans, sighs or sniffles he’s straight on my case telling me ‘it’s dangerous to underestimate serious illnesses.’ He claims that I taught him this last week, but I don’t remember. He looks smug when he says it and I wonder if he’s taking the piss.
He’s right though. I should definitely should take his sickness more seriously. I decide to help diagnose him.
‘Husband, are you cold?’
‘Babe, I have flu, I’m boiling.’
Not hypothermia, then.
‘Can you stand on up without pain?’
He can, so his legs aren’t broken. I’m at a bit of a loss.
‘Don’t worry, Husband, I’ll look up your symptoms on the internet.’
‘DO NOT look up medical stuff on the internet. Stay away from WebMD. I forbid you.’
While flicking through WebMD I unearth a startling discovery.
‘Don’t do that face!’
‘What face?’ I ask.
‘Your startling discovery face. You don’t have whatever you think you have and you’re not dying- don’t start this again.’
Husband is being overly dramatic because I last year I wrongly diagnosed myself with prostate cancer and got a bit upset. It was ONE time and it’s an easy mistake to make.
I tell him that this was ONE TIME and that he’s a pleb.
‘Babe, only last week you thought you caught hypothermia from the paddling pool…’
I’m too stunned to speak. It’s worse than I thought. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Husband is delusional already.
‘What’s that on your neck?’ I ask him.
‘A shaving spot’ He’s looking at me with suspicion.
‘You’ve got that look in your eye. What have you read?Whatever it is, you don’t have it, you won’t get it and you’renot dying- do not get the WebMD ’noids, I can’t be arsed with it, I’ve got the flu.’
He hasn’t got the flu.
And he just called me paranoid. It’s probably the fever talking.
I gaze lovingly at Husband for a full four minutes before he gets annoyed and goes to bed. I will miss him when he’s gone.
Two hours into his coma I take him a bowl of herb soup.
‘What’s this and why have you got a tea towel over your face?’he asks, without as much as a thank-you.
‘Protecting my face from hayfever.’ he’s too weak for the truth.
‘Why is there pot-pourri outside the bedroom door?’
‘Because you smell.’
Husband doesn’t question this, he knows that I think that men smell of poo. I bought some honey and almond showergel recently and now he smells like someone shit on a toblerone.
Husband staggers downstairs after a 4 hour coma; I set off the bell sound effects app on my iPhone to alert the neighbours he’s on the move.
‘What are you doing? Why are you wearing your funeral dress?’ he asks (I suspect the end is near so I changed earlier to save time.)
‘Why are you burning incense? It smells like a fucking opium den in here. Why have you turned the phone bill into a pot-pourri cone?’
I read online that in the 1400′s burned incense and inhaled herbs to prevent infection.
‘Why is there a red cross on the back door? How the fuck am I going to get that off…….?’
I haven’t the heart to tell him that such things won’t matter in the afterlife.
‘Oh my fucking God. You’re pretending I’ve got the Plague. Stop it. Be normal. Stop pretending I have the bubonic plague.’
I can’t hear him because I’m deep in prayer.
‘Wife, seriously- stop chanting, I’m not dying, you’re not a grieving widow and I don’t have the black death- it’s just a fucking cold!’
Ha. I knew it wasn’t flu.
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