Down for the count with a cold


This is my existence at the moment: lightweight wood pulp permanently stuffed up and chaffing my faucet of a nose, while the SO desperately tries to navigate my minefield of grumpiness with his balls intact.

The saying ‘hell has no fury like a woman scorned’? It should have a clause to include sick women too.

And of course, the SO has to be an expert interpreter of grunts and whines.

Me: “Thweetie, puh-rease path me that tith-you?”
The SO: “… erm… *looks around, sees tissue box*… sure!”


The SO: “Which movie would you like to watch tonight?”
Me: *curled up in the fetal position on the couch* “… grunt…”
The SO: “Ooook. Planet of the Apes? Conan?”
Me: “…grunt…”
The SO: “Planet of the Apes it is then.”

Yes, the role of the modern husband is a complex one: provider, translator, comforter and feet warmer. Who says chivalry is dead?