So, H had the flu, which turned into a bad cough – one of those annoying coughs with a spirit level, which starts up the second you lie down, so No Sleep Was Had. Being a gentleman, he slept (well, lay there and coughed incessantly) in the spare room for a week. Meanwhile, I slumped about the place being tired and unhappy.
While H was having flu, I went to a family barbeque. I had been dreading it – I’m not entirely close to all my extended and complicated family, and so only some of them knew I had just had surgery, and some fewer of those knew I was infertile and pissed off about it, and I could forsee some truly awkward conversations. As it was, I merely had to update my step-mum (who I adore) and one step-sister, both of whom knew all details, and then everyone else was far too polite to ask questions and instead merely forbad me from doing any helping out and made sure my glass was pretty much permanently full. Until Trouble arrived. Trouble is the special nickname I reserve for my only sister that shares both parents with me. She is a world-class shit-stirrer, and I say this with great affection. I dread to think what I’d call her if she weren’t my sister.
Anyway, Trouble’s idea of polite conversation over the salad and hamburgers is to quiz me loudly about the surgery and the state of my pathetic ovary, and then proceed to kind and loving and also loud remarks about how I don’t have kids yet and how nice it’ll be when I do have kids and how my kids will probably be total rebels, because kids are the opposite of their parents and I was always so sensible, and then, turning to her three-year-old daughter Minx (who is so very very cute she actually gets away with being a thoroughly bossy little madam) and started cooing about her wanting cousins. Minx was already playing very happily with her existing cousins. My step-sister, bless her, leapt in at this point and by main brute force steered the conversation away into more jolly channels.
Trouble has long been fond of accusing me of being ‘secretive’ about my life and not really discussing things with her.
Anyway. Work proceeds in an exhausting fashion, as we have shut the library to do a giant stock-check re-paint shelf-move re-arrange. The entire place is full of contractors banging about, half the books are in crates, the other half are being loaded on and off trolleys and hauled to the computers so they can be checked, the stink of paint is distressing, we the undersigned slaveys are covered in dust and scratches and go home with tired and aching muscles. It’s quite fun – no students. Of course, the students are our raison d’être, and doubly of course 90% of them are charming, polite, intelligent and a joy to help out, but bloody hell that remaining 10% are bad for my equanimity.
I have been taking Homeopathic Met, as Dr Alternative referred to it, for one week. Along with everything else. I have no change in size to report. However one of the many medications he has me on (or, possibly, the contraceptive pill) is doing something, because my head-hair is getting thicker and shinier, and facial hair is getting much less noticeable. Ditto tummy hair and toe hair. I am even wearing sandals in an insouciant sort of way.
We spent this weekend visiting Kew in the glorious sunshine (and sandals!), as H was at last feeling rather better. We lent a friend the spare room for Saturday night, and spent Sunday morning reading the papers and chattering in a leisurely fashion. When said friend had gone, H and I had a row, as you do when you’ve both been hors de combat for weeks and have both been behaving a little… self-absorbedly. And then we made up, which was great fun. And then I announced that my throat was feeling rather sore.
And here I am, stuck at home with a burning raw throat, a headache, and a slight fever, and thinking perhaps I should have boiled H in Dettol last week.
Just when I was starting to feel it was time to stop moping about and actually cheer up a bit.