It was setting fair to be a most excellent weekend, you know. My good friend E came to stay, and on Saturday afternoon we went to the theatre, which was wonderful, and then we had dinner at a favourite restaurant, and then we went to the theatre again in the evening – yes, I know! Overkill! Too much of a good thing can be absolutely wonderful. And we tottered home again with our heads overflowing with poetry and heart-strings thoroughly played upon and wrung.
This morning, however, I spent trapped in the bathroom (damn me for a fool, I forgot to take a book on the first go. SO BORED). I don’t know if it was the food (everyone else was fine), the violent and abrasive Turkish coffee grounds of which I got a huge and unfortunate mouthful of and half-wittedly swallowed, a bug, or a last-minute wild-cat strike from the innards who could not be having with calm and proper functioning of any of their comrades and felt the need to make up for Satsuma’s docility.
While I understand even the best-regulated bowel occasionally needs to press the eject button, I really don’t see why it has to be so uncomfortable. I think I now know what a tube of toothpaste feels like when squeezed hard in the middle. I’m sure I’ve got a dent and everything.
H took himself off to the Proms for the afternoon and evening. I was profoundly grateful. Seriously. When I am trapped in the bathroom, ‘enthroned’, clutching the side of the sink and wishing I was, if not actually dead then at least anaesthetized, it doesn’t help to have a concerned husband fluttering outside the door. I have managed to cure him of shouting ‘are you alright?’ through the keyhole every few minutes. I know, I know, it’s adorable that he shows so much loving concern. It really is. He’s a star. Just, I’m not really in the mood to answer, under the circumstances, and I’m going to be really unhappy if he flings the door open to find out why I’m not answering. Me with knick-knack about ankles and making a straining face is not a sight I am prepared to share with anyone, under any circumstances*. I will burp, fart, and in times of desperation pee with H in the room (ie he wanders in to brush his teeth and says ‘oh! I thought you’d finished!’ and I give him a look), but I will not vomit or defecate. Those are things that are really private. And I have hang-ups.
H doesn’t have hang-ups. The silly man was very hurt the first time I had stomach flu in his presence – I begged him to stop patting me and trying to hold my hair as I hurled, and he took it personally and sulked for a week. All my explanations that being touched while vomiting made the nausea distinctly worse and more difficult to deal with bounced straight off his defensive shields of hurt pride. So I shouted at him. Needs must.
I do hold H’s hair for him when he’s sick. He has very long hair, it needs holding, and he prefers to feel someone really, really cares while he tosses his cookies, but, seriously, folks, there have been occasions while performing this duty when I nearly made it utterly pointless by chucking onto the back of his head in sympathy.
I am so bad at vomit.
Anyway. I feel better now. I ate toast and chicken broth this afternoon, and my insides grudgingly let them stay. I’m almost offended. What the hell was all the agonizing fuss about this morning then? And I watched a great many old movies, and knitted, and it was very relaxing, or, really, I was left so wrung out and limp I had no option but to relax.
One week until the Red Menace roars back to trample my guts to rubble yet again. Onwards and upwards.
*Yes, yes, and I ‘won’t care if I’m ever lucky enough to give birth’, I’ve heard it all before. I tell thee, if necessary, I will give birth with a paper bag over my head.