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Apparently Husband didn’t sleep very well last night.  This is because (according to him) I woke up 6 times, loudly declaring ‘I’m hot!’ and then got out of bed at 4am and cried for ten minutes because I was too cold.
I remember nothing of this and have only his word for it, so given his recent dishonesty, I don’t believe him.  (Although… it would explain why when I got up this morning I was wearing gloves and the foil space poncho my mother got me when she visited NASA.)
We’ve started getting up a minimum of two hours before he leaves for work in order to spend quality time together and talk.  This was his idea. It is a very bad idea.  Given that I have hypothermia, I think I can excused any blips the usual sunny disposition he’s come to know and love.

‘Do you want toast babe?’ he asks, all healthy, happy and normal.

 Glare.

C-O-C-K-    O-F-F    I spell out using my hands to make the letters.

‘Is that a yes or a no? I don’t read sign language.’


Glare and two fingers.

‘Two pieces of toast then? Honey?’


I like honey, so I nod.
My mood improves as I read ‘get well soon’ messages on twitter from people who understand how ill I am.  Husband promptly ruins this mood by whistling.
When we got married, I drew up a list of rules; one of them prohibited whistling before midday.  Husband seems to have forgotten this rule, along with many of the others, including:
  • No pissing in wardrobes no matter how drunk you are
  • No asking for sex for a month if England beat Wales, Scotland or Ireland in
  • any sporting event, including synchronised swimming, archery and bowls.’
My fingers and toes are still a turquoisey blue, and if I stand in the garden in my pyjamas I start shivering again.  This is proof that I have hypothermia.   Husband sees me shivering and tells me to come in before I… and I quote, ‘…catch a sniffle?’

Sniffle? I have hypothermia! A sniffle is something made up by parents to make kids do their anoraks up… or to explain to strangers why their offspring drips snot… I have a potentially life threatening condition caused directly by his cheating on me with animals.  I would tell him all this, but I’m not speaking to him.

‘This is nice, we get to spend some time together before I leave now. How’re you feeling?’ he asks.


‘Babe? How’re you feeling?’ he asks again.  I’ve tried, I really have, but my will to speak is too strong:


‘I feel like shit, I have hypothermia and you aren’t taking me seriously.’ I tell him.


‘I am taking you seriously, but babe, you’ve got a sniffle because you got wet and you’re grumpy because you’re tired.’

Grumpy? I’m not grumpy; I’m having an emotional breakdown caused by ice shards in my brain. I hate it when he plays things down.  Hypothermia can cause all sorts of medical complications- I looked it up on Wikipedia.
By the time Husband returned from work last night I had fashioned my office chair into a passable replica of Stephen (God amongst men) Hawking’s wheelchair.  I accomplished this using duct tape, straws, a digital photo frame, some bamboo canes and the waste hose from the washing machine.  This exercise was designed to give Husband a glimpse of the consequences involved when not taking potentially life threatening complaints seriously.  If the wheelchair didn’t do it, the voice changer app on my iphone certainly hit home.
Judging by the look on his face, Husband will be more sympathetic in future.
I would like to quickly draw your attention to the ‘pet names needed’ button above this post- please click and share with me your ideas for embarrassing pet names for me to call him in public.  There are some crackers there so far… Sunday lunch at my mother’s is shaping up to be a colourful affair.
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