I am dying. In the great inevitability sense of the word AND in the more localized, micro economic sense. At the moment I’m mostly referring to the latter.
The progeny, channeling the Outbreak monkey/spurious wet-market bat, carried on her person a deadly pathogen, the likes of which can only ever be propagated in a kindergarten sandpit. A strain of pox forged through the dark communion of sand, moisture (of an undetermined origin) and multiple strains of snot (with mutable1 viscosity), hammered out with tiny plastic shovels and then easy-baked to perfection. I dub thee Pestilentia Rex.
After a short skirmish with the symptoms she bestowed this virulent blight on her poor, (and somewhat hapless) sperm-ovum contributors. (in my origin-story, by sneezing directly into my eyeball) It has both of us down and out for the count. The girl tempest, already recovered, is operating at her usual 105% capacity (which makes us both cheerful AF)
[1] Some of it yellow and crusty. Some it like runny honey. (All of it salty)
At the moment I’m tagged in to achieve some mattress time while mom 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… also my mewling is louder and more frequent2)
[2] I am careful to keep it under the threshold at which my (loving) spouse might be tempted to poison me with antifreeze. (I am not an idiot)
Unfortunately it’s not all chicken soup, Netflix and sleepy time. The basset hound thinks he has healing prowess. Whenever anyone in our household is sick, Dr D. will dutifully come and… well, cry at your beside until you lift him up onto the bed. (Our household is not a believer in equal-heights) He will then attempt to ‘heal’ you (with his girth). There’s nothing quite like a canine mandated recovery. Basically a 30kg cement bag macerating your spleen and obstructing the peristalsis of your small intestine.
I wouldn’t recommend it personally. One star.
The German Shepherd, although not an innate healer, feels left out and soon adds her mass 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.
Vaguely I wonder where it all started to go wrong for me?
Lying here, crushed by the symptoms of the common cold (as well as the canis familiaris), I suppose I could use this time for meaningful reflection, especially now that 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)
Remember Joey: Don’t go towards the light!
If you don’t hear from me again, know that I went out swinging. Okay, that’s probably not true. While I endeavored to fight them on beaches (and on the landing grounds)… I probably slipped on some child type detritus in the middle of the night, fell and smacked my head on the edge of the toilet, and then bled out on the bathroom floor. An ignominious end for one so mighty.
If at all possible I’d like a lone piper, preferably in bespoke Campbell (and a hairy Sporran) playing amazing grace while my body is stuffed (I am quite large) into a rocket capable of escaping orbit. Fire me off when the song ends. Or the piper passes out3. When the universe contracts again I wish to arrive before my peers. I am weirdly competitive that way…
[3] ‘We have a piper down, I repeat we have a piper down’
I tag this as alternative medicine…. and then laugh at my own joke. At least I’m still funny I decide.
*cough*
+++
Go Darke 