The Colour of Illness
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Mrs Headlander has been ill all this week so I’ve been cook, cleaner and nurse for her – fetching and carrying all sorts of things to her sick bed. Three thumps on the ceiling seems to be the established code for me to rush to the foot of our stairs and intone: “What can I get for you this time, O Bedridden Cleopatra?” I wait in avid anticipation for her sacred reply, ready to spring into immediate action. I wonder - What will she be requiring this time that she didn’t want three minutes ago? Does she want another glass of Lucozade? Does she need a dose of Milk of Magnesia? Perhaps she wants me to turn the page of her book for her?
“Can you get me some more loo rolls please, there’s none in here!” comes the echo of her voice from the throne room. We’ve discovered the colour of illness and it seems to be brown.
I look in the store cupboard in vain… no loo rolls. Blimey… that’s a 24 pack of Asda’s finest 2 ply she’s been through this week! Aha… there should be a box of man-sized tissues in the lounge. No there aren’t, it’s just before shopping day and I used them all up crying over England’s performance in the Ashes last night. One last chance – under the sink for a kitchen roll. Hooray! Success! I run up the stairs and deliver some absorbent happiness to my stranded other half. Oh well, on with the jacket to go and get some more.
Mrs H is down and out with a very bad stomach infection of some kind which is keeping her very close to the loo… I know it’s not funny really but I can’t help taking the mickey just a little – for instance by delivering her a glass of water whilst whistling Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire or getting down on my knees and examining the carpet between the bedroom and the bathroom for signs of extra wear and tear.
She-who-must-be-obeyed had an optician’s appointment earlier in the week that she was determined to attend despite her incapacitation as she keeps having to cancel it. I had to go with her for moral support so for safety we took a taxi to Middleton Grange to minimise the time away from a toilet. It didn’t go down so well when I got out of the taxi and put an empty plastic bag over my right hand “just in case”. She completed the appointment without incident and we returned home safely, bag unused!
Other than the bad stomach, Mrs H feels fine and so is keeping me busy around the house doing all the chores that I’ve been putting off for months – curtains have been washed, carpets cleaned, the oven has been scrubbed, the ironing basket is empty and I’m frankly knackered. One really bad thing though is that she won’t be well enough to go to the pub this weekend and so I won’t be allowed to go either but will have to sit in front of the telly. I’ll be really glad when she goes back to work next week so that I can get a rest – and I can finally take this nurses uniform off – it doesn’t really suit me and it’s starting to chafe a bit.
Cheers!
Headlander
p.s… Landlord Hugh from the Pint and Fight has come up with a truly awful medical tale of woe this week:
A cyclist goes to the doctors…
Doctor: What seems to be the problem?
Cyclist: I’ve got a sore elbow and a bad case of diarrhoea.
Doctor: Let’s look at the elbow first.
The doctor examines the cyclists arm closely.
Doctor: There’s no real problem, you’ve just pulled a muscle; I want you to take 2 pain killers, 3 times a day.
Cyclist: Thanks Doc.
Doctor: Now, when did you discover that you had diarrhoea?
Cyclist: When I took my bike clips off.
