Not on my death bed or anything, but feeling a bit poorly: nausea; headache; running a slight temperature.
Off my food.
Yep, that last one is the teller.
Now, apparently, when we are ill, men are terrible patients: all wimpy and needy. I’m pretty sure that I don’t fit that – what is surely an apocryphal – stereotype. When I’m ill, I may well be a bit wimpy, but I really don’t want anyone fussing over me. I’d much rather be left alone to die in peace.
Until I get better.
And, being alone in a hotel room, 200 miles away from your family, is just ideal for one with that sort of temperament.
Of course, the current Mrs Masher, being a doctor*, was continually on the phone, offering me advice: I obviously have a bug; I need to drink lots of water… maybe with a dash of lime in it; and try and eat something… rice or pasta or anything starchy; keep warm; fresh air… yada yada yada.
Each time she rang, I mumbled and nodded into the phone, agreeing to heed her wise advice, before rolling over and going straight back to the slumber she’d roused me from.
But, I’m pleased to say that I’m feeling better now – as my third bowl of porridge this morning would readily testify… if oatmeal could talk.
Now I just need to find where I’ve put my Get-up-n-go ™
* Mrs Masher isn’t actually a doctor, as such, but she’s never missed a single episode of Holby City, so it’s much the same thing.