So when I last spoke to you, beloved internets, I was just about to prance off on holiday and spend some time over-eating and admiring the scenery, also H, in a state of light-hearted anticipation. Because! Holidays! Yay!
It didn’t quite go like that.
Firstly, while digging through my cupboards looking for Just The Right Knitting Project To Take On Holiday, I found BASTARD MOTH LARVAE chewing holes in things. I killed them. I killed them all. I am the England Moth Murderer. And then I sprayed everything with cedarwood oil and put all the very expensive yarn back in the freezer (kills moth-eggs) and I said A Really Bad Word. No, worse than that one. The worsest one you can think of.
Secondly, while I was engaged in this invertebrate slaughter, H phoned me from rehearsals to let me know he’d been given thermonuclear soup for lunch and had spilt in on his hand and ow, actually. Oh, dear, I said, distractedly. Poor you. Kisses better. Die moths die. Of course, when I met up with him again that evening to see the Artistic Thing he’d been rehearsing, I was horrified to see he really had burnt his hand and had blisters and red-raw patches on his fingers and it was all rather incessantly sore.
The Artistic Thing went well though. I was very proud (no, I am not telling you. Our respective parents were there and everything and it is google-able).
Thirdly, the evening H and I arrived at our holiday destination (beauteous fishing-village in Cornwall, complete with golden beaches, fish-and-chips, fascinating little cobbled back-streets, the Atlantic all the way to America, and bonus unseasonal and unexpected entire week of warm sunshine and blue skies), H was developing a bad sore throat. He soldiered nobly on for the next four days, visiting the castles and gardens and such, but he was really quite ill with a foul and horrible cold – the sort that’s border-line ‘flu, because everything aches and one night he even had a fever (I had my basal body temperature thermometer with us, and I checked, and he totally had a fever, poor bastard) and then his head filled up with snot and his face hurt and he couldn’t stop coughing. We didn’t do any long walks, and we kept having to stop for sit-downs, and, get this, he didn’t want to eat much. This is H we’re talking about, most valiant trencherman and gourmet. And, unsurprisingly, he wasn’t really in the mood for sex-mad groupies either, not even cute sun-burnt ones with sandy feet and frazzled hair.
Fourthly, H had a long-standing and important social commitment to go to today, which was fine, his filthy cold was improving, I spent a happy afternoon doing laundry and fiddling with various knitting projects, and I wasn’t really expecting him back before pub-closing time. But he came home early, complaining he didn’t feel particularly well. Within an hour he was locked in the bathroom with the spare washing-up-bowl, suffering violently at both ends.
I shall beat my head against the wall, so I shall. What grudge is this, Universe, that you are suddenly exercising against my dearest H? Why burn him, fill his head and chest with unspeakable gunk, and then empty his torso with such unpleasant vigour? What did he ever do to you?
Anyway, I’d like to rhapsodize about the good bits of the holiday, but I am worried about H and I had to empty the washing-up bowl for him earlier (trick learned from reading Dana Kollmann’s memoirs of her days as a CSI – put a dab of Vicks under your nose before entering the Arena Of Gastrointestinal Despair to collect said bowls, especially if the smell of vomit normally makes you heave yersen (that would be my usual modus operandi. Once I held H’s hair for him and we were all within millimetres of my puking on the back of his head in syncope)). I am not in the mood for rhapsodies of any sort. And if I get either H’s cold or his stomach bug, I will be so bloody cross.