Four days ago, I contracted a headcold. Prickly throat, grumpy cough. It was mild to inclement, as colds go. I self medicated with 5000mg of calcium in powder format, and congratulated myself on my stoicism in the face of disease.
Turned out the cold was just warming up. Yesterday morning, it struck me down in my prime. I am currently a scene of carnage: small, rubbery red eyes; backfiring lungs; my throat an acrid furnace; snot exploding from every orifice and several pores. It might be the calcium.
All I felt like doing was lying in bed, moaning in between sips of brandy. Unfortunately, I was flying to London. I was going to decant a few million milligrams of calcium powder into an empty jar, but feared Security might think it was cocaine. So I didn’t. Doesn’t seem to have done me much good, *cough!*
My ears popped with unprecedented violence on the plane and have not fully unpopped. Chantal met me at Liverpool Street Tube Station. Conversation was tricky, because everything sounded like it was under water. Or it might just have been the effect of a dense, humid cloud of snot vapour
For those of you who missed the countdown, my husband returned on Saturday. Bit smelly, featuring rampant stubble and eyes like shrivelled raisins – VEINY shrivelled raisins – but still hotter than Jason Bourne on a cracker. And you can’t say that about many men. Or women, for that matter.
This morning, he came down with an acute case of time-zone flu. A regrettable side-effect is that his rating has slipped. He is now hotter than Jason Bourne in a wet t-shirt – but it’s a close thing
Husband has a Man Cold.
It is like Freddy Kreuger starring in a Greek Tragedy crossed with a train wreck: excruciating to watch. Judging by the noises Husband makes, it is excruciating to experience too. I feed him snacks to keep his strength up and bustle around making him cups of hot port, Lemsip, and tea.
He says things like, ‘Close the door on your way out’, when I’m nowhere near a door (don’t ask me what that means; the joke was too obscure even for me.)
This morning I offered to make him some porridge.
“With some raisins mixed into it?” he asked, liberally punctuated by a long sniff.
“Sure, no problem.”
“Are there any raisins left?” he asked. The way he said it was unbearably pathetic. In case you missed it, here’s the subtext: ‘If there are no RAISINS, it will possibly be more than I can humanly ENDURE, and I will seriously consider jumping off, well, something really very high, and don’t doubt for a moment that I wouldn’t totally go and do it if I had the energy or could think of something really very high.’
Thank christ there were raisins.
I hope he feels better soon. My subtext is: I hate seeing my man so miserable
Near the Westfield Shopping Centre, heading southwest along Henderson Valley Road, the Waitakeres rears up ahead. It’s a stunning view, but rather dispiriting from the vantage point of a bicycle. Far in the distance, at the very top of the Ranges, is the television arial which – if you’re me – is your destination.
Today’s cycle was a desperate mission of mercy to save Husband’s life: he had run out of Strepsils. He had also run out of bread and milk. This morning in the house, there was a distinct tension in the air competing with Husband’s exponentially increasing germs.
I was looking forward to the outing (apart from its urgent nature). It’s been ages since I’ve had some exercise and the day was glorious. Also, the cycle to Henderson is no hardship.
The cycle back, on the other hand . . .
Action shot of my evening shadow before it crash landed in the ditch. The photo at the top of the post is the Waitakere Ranges in afternoon sunlight, shot from #132