When I woke this morning I walked in on Graham to find him all prostrate and feverish, just woken, and not in the best of moods.
“I think I’d better phone the ‘flu line or something,” he said.
“Right. I’ll look out the numbers and such.”
So off I went for coffee and computer, located the info page and printed it out. It’s a list of the symptoms and what you should do if you think you have swine ‘flu, along with a choice of two phone numbers.
“Here you go,” I said, and slipped the paper under his reading glasses. He smiled, said thanks, nicely, and dozed off once more.
A little later he came down, fixed himself a bowl of corn flakes, and sat down with me to eat it. “For the first time I think I’m feeling a little better,” he said.
I squinted at him, closely. Sure enough, the colour is coming back into his face and he seems brighter over all.
“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel. Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about calling the ‘flu people?”
“Yeah. No point.”
“Great. You’re probably right. What now, then?”
“I shall go back to bed for a little while.”
“Fine. Give me a yell when you want something. I shall be popping out to the supermarket today now that I’m all mended. I want to get some bland food for you and your recovery.”
“Shredded Wheat. I need Shredded Wheat.”
“That I can do.”
It’s odd, isn’t it, how they always want the one cereal you don’t have in the cupboard?
