I’ve been out of commission for the past few days. Fortunately, it was only a bout of bronchitis and I am happy to report that I haven’t been hacked to death by my neighbour. Yet.
I appear to be on the mend (but that could be the drugs talking), although it still feels like someone has been at the inside of my chest with a wire brush. On the subject of drugs, being ill has always been a rather bitter pill for me to swallow, so it’s curiously appropriate that my medication has the side effect of leaving a bitter taste in my mouth that lasts for hours. A pity they can’t make it coffee-flavoured.
My wife has implied that I may be overstating the seriousness of my condition. She hasn’t actually used the word ‘malingering’ but it’s clear that she doesn’t believe that I’m ‘really’ sick. This is probably because I don’t spend the entire time whining about how ill I am (unlike some people I could mention). Despite her scepticism, she has nonetheless banished me to the camp-cot in the study so that my nocturnal hacking and spluttering won’t interfere with her slumbers.
The gods of poetic justice are on my side though, because my new sleeping arrangement means that I am too far away to hear the sprog when she decides to sing out in the middle of the night. The youngster normally responds to my brand of “Shaddap’n’gobacktasleep!“, because she knows I’m a mean old bastard and my capacity for sympathy is reduced to zero at 2 a.m. In contrast, when my wife tries to settle her, she gets excited and mutates into a pint-sized banshee.
Shrieking, or coughing? Tough choice, but I think I would have chosen door number two.