Right, that’s it. I succumb. I give up, hold my hands up, cease all resistence and blow my nose into a white handkerchief: I. Am. Ill.
Bugger, bugger, damn and pants.
I am not a good patient. In fact, I am a terrible patient. I’m the opposite of a man with Man Flu who goes to bed for a week to read Viz: I’m a mother with the Mother of All Colds, and as such I must soldier on, pretending that I’m not ill, making breakfasts for 3 small people who think snow is fun, cooking for my in-laws and writing next year’s best-selling novel.
(I am also aware that not all men with flu have Man Flu, just to be clear. Some men get the Mother of all Colds and soldier on too, just wearing boxers, not thongs…we hope.)
Here’s what I do: at the first signs of possible impending illness, I go to for a run. The theory is this: if I’m only a weeny bit ill, then sweating the invaders out will a) make me feel much better because endorphins are my drug of choice and b) get rid of the little buggers.
Sadly, if I actually AM ill, then going for a run wipes me out good and proper, and I feel like a prime dipstick.
Today, I feel like a prime dipstick. I am coughing, and sniffing, and shivering and wheezing, drinking Lemsip like it’s gluehwein, watching as my nose dries to a crisp and turns red…..AND trying to look after my three children who are on holiday, when really someone should be looking after me. Except I don’t deserve it, because I am a dipstick, who brought this upon herself.
I deserve to have snowballs thrown at me while wearing only a tea towel and some slippers.
So, people, when you feel the winter bugs are upon you, don’t go for a run. Don’t pretend you’re not ill. Don’t be Super-parent-gunning-for-a-reward-that-will-never-come. Instead, wrap up, sit down, drink a hot toddy and go to bed. Preferably with several copies of Elle Deco and a hot water bottle.
Keep warm. Keep well. Keep not being a dipstick.