I am under house arrest. Locked, by the sheer force of Marks will to have me better, in my sweet smelling bedroom.
So Wednesday I went to hospital to have my ears hoovered (I do so like to keep these things spick and span) only to find myself promptly send packing due to a high temperature and "swollen tubes". True I did feel a bit flu-ey but I’m the kinda girl who gets flu everytime I get PMT (I swear it’s true- go back month by month through the chronicles and I’m sure you will find me reporting one virus or another every 28 days or so…) so I felt a bit sorry for myself, elicited sympathy from all those willing to give it and went to bed.
The next morning I got up, went to the loo, turned the tap on to brush my teeth and keeled over in a dead faint. And there I stayed till Mark came back from Finn’s nursery and found me sprawled, legs akimbo and tears tripping me.
He dragged me into bed and there I’ve been ever since. A blissful spring breeze blowing through the room. Clean sheets everyday, the noise of a two year old just a far off echo and the tang of
Oh and no internet connection, because Mark is enforcing rest upon me of the very worst kind. But has this evening relented to allow me to tell you that I am alive, and by the doctors diagnosis, suffering from flu of the fully fledged but not bird kind.
Mark wants me to tell you that this forced rest is for my own good: that it is one thing after another because my head is too busy. That I’ve forgotton to care about how I feel. He wants me to ask you to report me straight to him should you find me wandering aimlessly around the webosphere in the next twenty four hours, so, no doubt, he can chain me into a straight jacket.
I want you to know that but for a raspy voice, scarily loud hacking cough and the occasional flush of my pretty cheeks, I am fine, and were it not for a worried Doctor (hmmm, Alison, you’ve been sick for two months now, time for some blood tests methinks) and a fussy Mark, I would be here today regaling you with tales of untold loveliness.
Instead it is back into bed for a bowl of tomato soup sprinkled with parmesan croutons, a pile of trashy paperbacks and a big
Oh that you may all have a nursemaid like Markus.