We were just sitting down to a glass of wine before dinner yesterday evening when Graham announced that he was not feeling too good and that I’d best not give him too much to eat. By ten, after struggling to eat a couple of mouthfuls, he was ready for bed, paracetamol, and extra rations of “oh, you poor sausage.”
He was running a mild fever, and had aches in his joints. A minor cough, nothing special.
So I told him that if he died of swine ‘flu I’d never talk to him again and tucked him in with great care.
Middle of the night I woke to find that I wasn’t feeling too good, either. Much the same symptoms.
So we stayed a’bed, following my oft-repeated philosophy that sleep is the best medicine.
I was up and at ‘em again by mid-day. Graham was feeling much better but still had a lot of sleep in him to use up so I took him tea and told him to stay where he was, call me if he needs anything. Then I tiptoed down to brew myself coffee.
I’m working on a killer line for when he wakes.
