What do you mean hes poorly? How bad is it? gasped his mother-in-law. Oh, hes just resting. Nothing serious, a slight temperaturetypical winter sniffles. Winter sniffles? Its your job, thats what it is! Always bringing germs home from that till of yours! How many times must I tell youfind a different job!
Emily was fast asleep when a loud noise jolted her awakesomeone had yanked the front door open! She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the alarm clockbarely 8 AM!
Oliver, love, is that you? she called out, listening for movement in the flat.
Silence. Then, the creak of the bathroom door swinging open and nothing.
Emily threw on her dressing gown and dashed barefoot to the bathroom.
She pushed the door openand froze.
There stood Oliver, stretching his lips in the mirror, admiring his own tongue.
Emily, is it true your tongue goes white when youre ill? he asked.
Are you ill? she mumbled, still half-asleep.
Think so, he replied, pressing a concerned hand to his forehead. Need the thermometer. Where is it? I should lie down. They even sent me home from work. Probably should call the GP.
Emily dug out the thermometer. Sure enough99°F. Well, there it was. Winter had arrived, and Oliver was down for the count. The GP came an hour later, signed him off work.
Emily rang her mum.
Could you pick little Alfie up from nursery? Olivers ill, so he cant stay home.
Her mum was practically delightedshe adored her grandson, living alone as she did, and Alfie was her little ray of sunshine.
Whats wrong with Oliver? Nothing serious?
Nah, just a bug. GPs been, gave him a sick note, plenty of rest.
And how are you feeling? her mum fretted.
Im fine! Just working the late shift this week, so Ill ask his mum to pop by and check on him. Cheers, Mum, talk later.
Right. Time for action. A light chicken soup should do the trickwhich meant a dash to the shops (and the chemist). Dig out the chicken drumsticks from the freezer, grab some carrots and potatoes
At the chemist, she stocked up. At lunch, she shook Oliver awake.
Oliver, sit uphave some soup.
Groggy, he propped himself up.
Ugh, feel queasy. Cant I have it in bed? Too weak for the kitchen
That bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Check your temp after.
Soup consumed, temperature takenstill 99°F. Emily handed him pills. He rolled toward the wall and conked out again. Small mercies. She couldnt afford to get sickOliver got full sick pay, but Emilys retail job? Not a chance. And with the mortgage hanging over them, she had no room to crumble. She rang her mother-in-law.
Margaret, Olivers poorly. If you could swing by this evening, just in case. Late shift means I cant keep phoning him.
Poorly? How poorly? Margaret gasped.
Just resting. Slight temperature, nothing mad. Winter, innit?
Winter? Its that job of yours, bringing home heaven-knows-what from that till! How many times must I sayget another job!
Margaret, Im not ill! You said yourself Oliver was always poorly as a kid. Frost hits, and bamhardly my fault!
Emily cut the call short. Margaret could turn a papercut into open-heart surgery, and the last thing she needed was her barging in. Oh well. Let her fuss. Emily had work to prep for anyway.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived armed with enough herbal remedies to stock Boots, clucking over her son like hed survived the plague.
Honestly, letting him lie there in a sweaty shirthell catch his death! How could you not notice?
Margaret, he was asleep. What was I meant to do?
Off to work Emily trudged. A few hours in, a wave of weakness hit. Brilliantnow she was coming down with it. But no time to wobble. Just power through. That evening, her temperature was higher than Olivers. She almost complainedbut he was too busy examining his tongue in the mirror.
Chills, aches. Mum made me honey-lemon tea. Helped a bit, but now Im rotten again. What should I take?
Dunno Im not feeling great either
Well, take something then, Oliver said, still eyeing his reflection. Still white. Fascinating.
Right. No whinging. Pop pills quietly, keep working. The mortgage wouldnt pay itself.
All week, Oliver wallowed in martyrdomeven when the thermometer read a perfect 98.6°F, he insisted he was at deaths door. Margaret practically moved in, armed with tinctures and tuts. The last thing Emily wanted was a showdown, especially when she looked like death warmed up.
Oliver noticed nothingtoo busy napping between telly and Twitter. By day four, her fever broke.
The fatigue lingered, but she soldiered on. Oliver, meanwhile, milked it for all it was worthmeals in bed, constant temperature checks, drinks fetched on demand.
He was poorly all the time as a boy, Margaret sighed, as if that explained everything. This was his first cold in five years of marriageand somehow, it was unbearable.
A sniffle, and he acted like hed climbed Everest with flu.
Next week, he was cleared to work. Alfie came home. Tomorrow, back to the grind.
Over tea that evening, Oliver sighed dramatically.
When I was a lad, colds were nothing. But this? Worse than a stag do in Newcastle.
Really? That bad?
Easy for you to say, Miss Healthy.
I had it too, Oliver. You just didnt notice.
He blinked, then grinned smugly.
Youre winding me up, arent you? Alright, bedtime.
Emily sighed. Of course he hadnt noticed.
Oh well.
Like the joke goesa woman whos given birth can only begin to fathom the agony of a man with a 99°F fever
