Carol’s Column

A little flu goes a long way

ON Thursday night my throat clogged. It scratched and my chest sounded like a Formula I car in low gear.

I woke my husband.

"Can't you stop that?" he asked from under the pillow over his head.

"Stop what?"

"The heavy breathing — you're making the bed shudder."

On Friday morning I was really ill. I had a hacking cough and my neighbour phoned to ask me to shut the bedroom window.

"Your coughing's keeping us awake at night," she said.

"Listen, I've got flu," I announced to my family.

"I'm staying in bed."

"Fine," said my husband. "Don't worry about a thing. I'll organise everything. You just get into bed after you've done the lift scheme and I'll keep the home fires burning."

I hadn't realised he meant it literally until he brought up breakfast.

It didn't matter. I was too sick to eat.

He came to kiss me goodbye. "Listen, Jamie's gone to school with no shoes, we couldn't find them but don't worry, it's a hot day — the frost has melted already.

"I couldn't get those bobble things to work, so Nicky's hair is loose and I gave the kids four apples each instead of sandwiches.

"I've put Barry's tabbies in the fridge and I'll fetch the kids at lunchtime."

I was grateful.

At 2 pm the phone rang.

It was Julie's mother on the phone.

"What happened? I've got the wrong child. Someone else's child is sitting eating lunch in the diningroom and she says she doesn't like meatballs."

The three other lift scheme mothers phoned in a panic.

My husband shrugged it off. "What are they complaining about?" he said. "They all look the same anyway.

"How are you feeling?"

"Dreadful," I muttered. "Let me sleep."

I had a good sleep, uninterrupted, except when my husband wanted to know where the plates were, what to make for supper, what to feed the dogs and the pet rat, how much water to add to the fruit juice, how to get the toast out of the toaster and how to cook spaghetti.

Supper was a surprise. Boiling water and toast.

"Isn't something missing?" I asked, sipping the water.

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice. I couldn't find the soup."

Saturday passed uneventfully, other than the fact that he put the dishes in the tumble drier, sold the children, clogged the sink and brought home take-away Chinese food for breakfast.

He managed the supermarket shopping without a problem, bringing home Brie cheese, a bottle of red wine, Spanish pickles and frozen crepe suzettes.

It didn't matter that we were out of toilet paper, soap, sugar and dog food.

"Who cares if the dogs eat crepes?" he asked. "It's good for them."

On Saturday afternoon he staggered home exhausted. "I've been driving your children around for three hours," he grumbled as he sipped a glass of medicinal brandy. "And the night hasn't even begun."

I snuggled deeper into the bed and crossed my toes. "You poor thing," I murmured solicitously.

On Sunday I felt a little better, and when I told my husband — he fainted with relief . . .

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