No but really, I’m ill.

1. This morning, J reminded me that if I were looking for sympathy, I would find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. After I crossed him off my will I went back to bed and gasped for a little while.

2. A number of noble souls (3) offered to come over and wipe my brow, make me all kinds of soup and watch bad movies with me. I was touched and horrified at the same time.

3. J tried to bully me into following his own strict recovery guidelines: close the door, got to bed, talk to no one for three days.

4. Blogpeople, the land of crumpled paper tissues, lemsip, red nostrils and vitamin C gets infinitely boring after a while. Still, I can’t let a n y b o d y see me like this, oh no. I invoked the dreaded lurgy, and finally put off the Florence Nightingale wannabes. I have to hide, it’s a matter of pride. How long does it take for trust to build up so I can let someone close?

5. And then this morning I gave up and said yes to one potential brow-mopper. She’s coming over with drugs, a lurgy-sized box of tissues and strawberries. I’m being really nervous. Why do women have to be so damn caring?

6. Not just between shit and syphilis, then.