“He’s got a little cough,” I heard her say on the phone. I was in another room, feeling as though I might be dying. She was talking to… actually I don’t know. Someone who’d asked after me, I assume.
We get a bad rap for this, us men. For some reason, the ladies are equipped with a sort of resilience to sickness that is difficult for them to imagine we, their spluttering bed-bound husbands, do not possess. It’s a biological failing of equality.
I’ve been clammy and sweaty all day. Sorry for the over-sharing, but I imagine you know the feeling: cold, shivery, head-pounding, boiling hot, and skin like a wet fish. My nose has been running, and my throat has been scratchy, and I’ve spent the day reading Prince Harry’s book, Spare - which hasn’t exactly made me feel much better. I got up for the loo, refills of water, and to make a bit of lunch, but other than that I’ve been miserably resting.
It’s more than a little cough, surely? A little cough is what you do to get someone’s attention, or when you’ve been out in the rain. What I’ve got feels like a kind of rattle that scours my throat, shakes my lungs and aches through every muscle. Plus it’s there, like a scratch I can feel all the time, preventing me from sleep all night and most of today.
I don’t want to moan about it though. I’ll soldier through, just like Prince Harry forward-area-commanding in Afghanistan, leaving all of the rage back in Blighty.
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