It’s Saturday, the sun is shining and I am ill. Not in a, ‘I can’t lift my head off the pillow, shoot me now‘ way. More in a ‘I’m coughing like a dog and feel as if my head is being slowly squashed by a vice‘ kind of way.
I don’t do ill – I fight to keep going until the germs finally raise the victory flag. Which is dumb, because they then tend to take up residence and claim squatter’s rights; usually in my lungs.
But I am determined to prevail. I am woman hear me roar, or in this case hack up a lung. So I am snuggled up in my dressing gown, banging away on my keyboard ‘working’.
Mr Chic tends to be the voice of reason during times of illness, in other words he nags me relentlessly to ‘take is easy‘ or ‘have a break‘ or ‘drop the bleach and step away from that work surface‘. Do I listen? Er, what do you think?
So the conversation this morning went something like this:
Mr Chic: How are you feeling?
Me: Not cough too splutter bad cough, cough.
Mr Chic: Honey, you sound like a combination of Patti and Selma on a bad day. Why don’t you have a lie down.
Me: I’m OK, I just need more tea.
Mr Chic then toddled off to make a cuppa and left me to bang away. Along with a ginormous mug of steaming tea he passed me this:
I think he’s made his point, I’m off to bed. Touché Mr Chic, Touché!