I am dying. In the great inevitability sense of the word and in the more localized, microeconomic sense. At the moment I’m mostly referring to the latter. My daughter, in the guise of the Outbreak monkey, rolled out a ‘pandemic’ and has bequeathed her parents a virulent tummy bug.
(see what I did there)
It has both her mom and dad out for the count. My wife is throwing up. And I’m alternating out of both ends. The girl tempest is healthy again and operating at her usual 105% capacity (which is adding to the general sense of misery in the domicile of the Jo) However at the moment I’m tagged in to achieve some matress time while the wife grinds out suicide hour and the parent of the year achievement award. Because I’m the male of the species my symptoms are deemed more severe and incapacitating. (ha, ha)
Unfortunately for me it’s not all isotonic sports drinks and sleepy time. The basset hound thinks he has healing properties. Whenever anyone in our household is sick, Dr D. will come and pin (kesa-gatame) you down and ‘heal’ you (with his body weight). He doesn’t take no for an answer. Nothing like recovery with 25kg cement bag lying on across your small intestine.
The German Shepherd, although not an innate healer, feels left out and soon adds her massive girth to the equation. Eventually everyone is snoring loudly… except for the intended recipient of said healing, who as well as being sick is now, also, extremely uncomfortable.
This is not how I had intended my Friday evening to go. (I had carefully planned out Roco Mamas via Uber-eats and then boardgaming with my scoobie friends)
Alas by two thirty pm the deep rumbling and gurgling in my bowels alerted me that Plaguefather Nurgle had paid me a visit and that it was now a race to get home or risk a brown out.
On arrival, I felt better. So I went for a swim and then co-opted my old man to help me drag a newly repurposed cupboard from the workshop into the study. (Which turned out to be murderously difficult, this cabinet of Narnian proportions was unwieldy, ridiculously heavy and the route that this piece of furniture would have to take was circuitous at best)
I’m running out lego storage space.
Removing my wife’s grandmother’s fine china from the display cabinet in the dining room in order to house sections of Joey-polis proved to be a contested arrangement. Being loathed to spend money on a cupboard I happened on an old, unloved wardrobe. It smacked of neglect and general browness… but some sandpaper and a new coat of paint made it completely functional again. Best of all, it was free.
Eventually, and after many breathers, the cupboard was in place and getting its innards filled with Danish blocks of wonder. Unfortunately the pubella bubonics had finally cornered me and soon after this I spent some time curled up on the bathroom floor in the fetal position. And then curled up in front of the television while the girl-child consumed Peppa Pig.
For a while she liked Timmy Time (The Shaun the Sheep spin off) but now it’s ALL about Peppa pig. It’s actually not bad. Initially I was also quite entertained, but now, stuck on repeat it has lost some of its piggy charm and taken on a disturbing torturing Manuel Noriega* type vibe.
*is that too obscure a reference he wondered.
With this viral spanner, the trajectory of my entire weekend has now been called into doubt. I have a sneaky suspicion it’s not going to be very exciting. Know that if you don’t hear from me again that I went out swinging…
I will endeavour to fight them on beaches (and on the landing grounds).
We will (almost never) surrender. Unless bribed with cheese and hot chocolate.