There’s a lot of it about . . .

 

There’s a lot of it about . . .

                               Eve and Barry, twenty years ago

I hear this phrase so frequently and am never sure whether it’s meant in sympathy or censure. I care not at all.

The ‘it’ I refer to is a bug of unknown provenance, since we never go anywhere or see anyone (sn’f, sn’f) Anyway, wherever it popped up its evil little head, it’s got Barry fair and square and he’s coughing and spluttering fit to bust. After a couple of days of me suggesting and then ordering him to bed, he finally complied when he was feeling too rough to tough it out, and there he remains, watching rugby and boxing and Olympics and sleeping, alternating between fiery hot and icy cold.

Another expression that is often heard in such circumstances is, ‘It’s gone to his chest.’ What a silly thing to say. Where else would you expect a chest infection to manifest itself?

Asked how he feels, he either says, ‘A bit better, I think,’ or, more worryingly, ‘Not feeling too good,’ but mention of consulting a doctor brings a robust if slightly wheezy, ‘I’m not that ill.’ So, I continue to dose him at regular intervals and lie in bed at night listening to him breathing. If I can’t hear him breathing, I lay hands on him, though not in a miracle performing way, to assure myself that his lungs are inflating and deflating rhythmically. This is something I have been doing for decades, literally. I’m always quite relieved to hear him snoring, though it’s sometimes difficult to ascertain precisely which mammal in the bedroom is sawing logs.

He’s currently on day 6 of the affliction so hopefully he will start genuinely feeling better soon. He’s just told me he’s got a bad case of Man Flu, so there’s a glimmer of humour appearing again. He’s normally a very positive person – generous, too, as I now have a scratchy throat and headache and feel hotter than the warm day would warrant.

There’s a lot of it about . . .

In happier news, it’s my youngest granddaughter’s birthday today. Eve is twenty-three – I remember that age. It was lovely.