I have a few pet hates in life. One is queue jumping. Another is ‘people’ (ie OH) not watching where they wee in the night and getting it all over the floor. See also, not being able to eat boiled sweets because they’ve melted and the wrapper has become uncontrollably glued to them. Also, going all the way to the shops to buy a twix, because I really, reeeeally fancy one,and discovering it’s the only chocolate bar they are out of. (this sort of thing almost sends me into a King Kong-like frenzy, where I have to really fight the urge to pull everything off the shelves and beat my chest in despair.)
But my top pet hate, my number one all-time loathing, is being ill. Now, I freely admit that I am not good with other people being ill either. I find it quite difficult to muster sympathy. (particularly with OH for some reason, though I do think it might be partially due to the fact that he hams it up to the nines and makes claims that he’s ‘got bronchitis’ when he’s just got a sore throat etc. Heh heh. He might actually kill me when he reads this…)
But I find it even harder to muster sympathy for myself. Oh, I get so irritated with my own body for daring to be so incompetent as to catch a bug when I need it to run on overload on a daily basis! How dare it do something as selfish as become ill?
So, as you can imagine, my realisation, last weekend, that I was rapidly coming down with a particularly rancid flu bug, was not a happy event. My first thought was ‘oh great, and how am I meant to look after two boys whilst barely able to function?’ followed very swiftly by ‘and I was really looking forward to that glass of wine tonight, and now I won’t be able to have it, as I’ll feel too ill, you useless body, you!’
(It is a brave being that keeps me from my wine.)
Seven days (seven days!) later, and I am finally starting to feel a little better. But insanely irritated by the seven days of my life that have been wasted sitting on the sofa sipping lucozade and feeling abominably sorry for myself.
To top the week off nicely…poor DB2 is now unwell too, and today, OH follows suit. I can tell that he desperately wants to tell me that it’s not a bug, it’s in fact stomach cancer, but he doesn’t quite dare. As he knows…it’s one of my pet hates…