Hubby and I must look a real sight walking down the road together these days. Some couples hold hands, or link arms. Our hands are otherwise occupied as we whistle down the tarmac on our crutches and sticks.
The whistling is not coming from us I might add, as all four items are hollow aluminium tubes with a selection of holes for adjustability. I suppose on a good day if we felt up to it, we could start blowing across the damn things like flutes and busk in the High Street for pennies.
This isn’t the only reason we’re compatible at the moment though, and it’s all my fault.
Indirectly, it’s actually that busking band’s fault, as if I hadn’t been swaying to their music last week, I wouldn’t have done my ankle in, which in turn would not have led to going to the doctor, and thus result in our current malaise .
Whilst my share of the lurgy has gone to my chest (I have got through almost 2 bottles of Venos cough mixture, the ONLY thing that works for me, and they are no longer making it. Something to do with an ingredient that is now on the medicinal banned list. It’s probably the same one as was in Owbridges, which was taken off the market years ago and why I had to switch to Venos!) . This has not helped my re-flux issues, and I’m getting fed up with it. Just a TAD !
Hubby’s half has gone to his head. Or more accurately, his nose and eyes. He has got through a box and a half of aloe balm tissues, and is totally cheesed off with the constant sneezing and blowing practically 24/7.
He thanks me every day, at least twice, sarcastic git.
Last night we were taking it in turns to wake each other up with a cough, blow, sneeze, blow, cough, fart musical rhythm. He gave up around 3am, got out of bed and made himself a cup of tea. I padded to the loo shortly thereafter as the bedroom was a little too fragrant for me. Hell, we couldn’t even blame it on sprouts. I don’t know what they’re putting in decongestant capsules or other cold remedies these days, but it has a dire effect on the digestive system (both guilty I’m afraid) .
This morning, as his eyes continue to stream and he gradually disappears behind a rising tsunami of used tissues, I feel guilty. I mean, really, seriously, guilty. We should both be over this by now, or at least be on the tail end of it, but like some viral boomerang, it keeps coming back.
We both had our flu jabs last year, but I think they missed off the letter S on ‘your’ and our surgery was firing blanks.
Hubby deserves a medal for taking the dog out at least once every day despite feeling like shit as I’m still not driving. He had a terrible night again last night, and is still sniffing, spluttering and blowing away, red nosed and puffy eyed, with mutterings of Thanks Love under his breath that he thinks I can’t hear.
So here it is, officially labelled on google images as Husband’s Medal (given with all my unbuggy and current totally buggy love) :
I’m sorry honey.