| ’Flu Frolics by Ruth Ainley
You know how it is, ladies, one day you’re right as rain, the next you’ve got ‘flu…and I’m not talking ‘man-flu’ here. Nope. I’m talking serious, three-boxes-of-Kleenex-a-day type flu. And does your beloved notice? Midweek, no, but come the weekend, yes. And, suddenly, you wish it was midweek again…
Having struggled round the house, sneezing, coughing and being generally unhealthy towards the greater part of the human race for a week, Hubby No. 2 (being particularly observant) finally noticed that I was ill. And hubby, feeling especially benevolent, decided that this being Saturday I should rest, stay in bed and leave everything to him.
So, willing to take his advice (for once) I snuggled back under the duvet and settled down for an extended sleep. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and hubby appeared with a cup of tea.
“Thought you might like this,” he smiled.
I warily opened one eye and glanced over the 12 tog at the approaching teacup. Not wishing to appear ungrateful, I smiled a cautious ‘thank you’ all the while expecting an ulterior motive to be unmasked. But, to my surprise and delight, hubby departed. No questions, no problems, nothing. I relaxed and sank into a blissful, dreamlike state. But two minutes later, he reappeared.
“What program do I set the washing machine to for the whites?”
At the mere mention of ‘washing machine’ panic brought me into an upright position. Because even though the male of the species do try hard (bless their little cotton socks) they just can’t cope with the complexities of washing machines, ovens or tumble dryers. It’s not their fault, it’s just the way the human species has evolved. Men know about lawnmowers, cars and plumbing, women master the intricacies of washing machines, tumble dryers and ovens.
“Just leave the washing,” I suggested nervously. “I’ll be up and about by tomorrow.”
But hubby was having none of it. “No, I can cope,” he insisted. “Just tell me which program to use.”
And as I practically shrieked the reply, hubby retreated to the safety of the hall. Forcing myself to relax, telling myself that he was a confident, capable adult, I slipped back under the duvet.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a tap at the bedroom door. “Are you asleep?”
I gritted my teeth and replied in the negative.
“I was going to put the oven on for lunch but it won’t work. What’s wrong with it?”
I sighed, recalling how I had used the oven on ‘automatic timer’ the previous night. Now, as the good lady readers of this article will testify, it is easier to attend to such a challenge yourself than to try and instruct a novice in the vagaries of the automatic oven. And so, slipping on my little tartan slippers, I marched down into the kitchen. And with a quick flick of the buttons, the problem was solved. I returned to my bed.
Five minutes later there was another knock at the door.
“The washing machine seems to have a lot of soap in it. Is it OK?”
And as the alarm bells began to ring, I struggled once more into an upright position.
“How much soap did you use?” I enquired.
“Just what it said on the bottle, two cupfuls,” he replied innocently.
“Cupfuls?” I whispered.
“Yes, two cupfuls for a full load,” he stated, indignantly. “I did use the little china tea cup that you don’t like,” he continued in a more placatory manner, noticing the slight change in atmosphere. And as I took aim and threw his reading specs from the side of the bed, hubby disappeared.
Resignedly, I slipped out of bed and trotted down into the kitchen. And there sat the washing machine, foam forcing its way out of the door, the drawer, its base….
Two hours later, bucket and mops lying at the back door, I struggled back up the stairs and fell into bed, finally drifting off into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Some time later I was awoken by dinner, or rather the sound of the doorbell as the Indian takeaway was delivered. Yes, there’s nothing like good, wholesome food when you’re ill….
And hubby brought me dinner in bed. And hubby joined me for dinner, sighing with exhaustion and regaling me with the many and varied chores he had performed throughout the day.
And then it happened – hubby sneezed. And, with a look of terror upon his face, hubby’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Move over, luv, I think I’ve got flu.”
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