It’s got me. I knew it would. The cold that has infected all of my family has now got it’s vicious little claws well and truly clamped on me. Uncle M is now the only one of us free from illness. Unfortunately, he is not particularly good at taking care of children. We did teach him to fetch nappies on command, but his lack of opposable thumbs has thwarted our attempts to get him to actually change the dratted things. Come on evolution, isn’t it time for family pets to have more uses?
So I did say that I would explain why I am an accomplished sufferer of Man Flu. My current circumstances have made this, unfortunately, very relevant.
I do not appreciate being ill of any kind. It makes me angry. I become very irritated with myself and the world around me. Being ill is rubbish. It means you can’t do all manner of things and makes it very difficult to enjoy the things that you can still do. On top of all that, it is painful and makes you incapable of rational thought or coherent speech. Everything shuts down and all I want to do is crawl in to my bed and wait for it to be over. I literally have arguments with my incapable body (in my head, out loud would be crazy) trying to convince myself to be better.
I am a rubbish patient. I don’t want lots of care and sympathy. I just want you to bring me an occasional drink and pills, and listen to me complain about why I hate being ill. I can not emphasise this enough, I am pathetic when I am ill. Colds are the absolute worst because they’re not even a proper illness. They’re just flu wannabes. They don’t allow you to just give up and go to bed. No, with a cold you have to keep going, carrying on in a miserable way, spreading your germs wherever you go. “Oh, it’s just a cold,” we say whilst sneezing our germs in each others faces.
Then, when you have children, they’re not going to let you just carry on. You also have to cook, entertain, comfort, cajole, discipline and never ever rest.
Hubby is currently away on a cruise ship talking to people about the aurora. Well played, sir. My poor parents are the ones left to deal with me and my children, colds and all. It’s a good job they already know what I’m like and have unending patience with my children.
Okay, I feel better after that whinge. Thank you for listening to me complain. Now, who is bringing me my pills and a drink? Make it a double.