How do you meanhes poorly? In what state? gasped the mother-in-law.
A sleeping state. But its nothing serious, just a slight temperature. Perfectly normalwinters started.
Winter? Nonsense! Its that job of yoursyou bring all sorts home from that till of yours! How many times must I tell youfind another job!
Emily had been asleep when a loud crash jolted her awakesomeone had flung open the front door! She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the clockonly eight in the morning!
Oliver, love, is that you? she called out, straining to hear movements in the flat.
No answer. Just the sound of the bathroom door creaking open then silence.
Emily threw on her dressing gown and dashed barefoot to the bathroom.
She pushed the door openand froze.
There stood her Oliver, lips stretched wide, admiring his own tongue in the mirror.
Emily, is it true that when youre poorly, your tongue goes white? he asked.
Are you poorly? she mumbled, still half-asleep.
Think so, he replied, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. Need the thermometer. Where is it? I should lie down. They even sent me home from work. Might need to call the GP.
Emily fetched the thermometer. Sure enough37.5. Typical. Winter had arrived, and Oliver had succumbed. The GP came within the hour, signed him off.
Emily rang her mum.
Could you pick up little Alfie from nursery? Cant have him homeOlivers poorly.
Mum was delightedshe adored her grandson, living alone as she did, and Alfie was her little ray of sunshine.
Whats wrong with Oliver? Anything serious?
No, just a bug. GPs been, got his sick note, prescribed some remedies. Rest should sort him.
And how are you feeling? Mum fretted.
Fine! Ive got the late shift at workasked the mother-in-law to pop by and check on Oliver. Itll be like this all week. Cheers, Mumappreciate it.
Right. Time for action. A light chicken soup was in order, which meant a dash to the shopsand the chemist. Needed to dig out chicken thighs from the freezer, grab carrots and potatoes.
She got everything at the chemist. At lunch, she roused her husband.
Oliver, up you get. Soups ready. She shook his shoulder.
Oliver groaned, clutching his stomach. Ugh, feel queasy. Cant I have it in bed? Cant face the kitchen.
That bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Then check your temp again
Soup consumed, temperature takenstill 37.5. Emily doled out pills. Oliver rolled toward the wall and dozed off. Good. Now, she just had to avoid catching it herselfOliver got full sick pay, but at her shop? Not a chance. And with the mortgage looming, she couldnt afford to be ill. She dialled her mother-in-law.
Margaret, Olivers poorly. If you could check on him tonight? The shops packed in the eveningsIll never get through to him.
Poorly? What state is he in? Margaret gasped.
Asleep. Just a mild temperature. Winter, you know.
Winter? Pah! Its that till of yoursdragging germs home! Ive told you a hundred timesget a new job!
Margaret, Im fine! Youve said yourself Oliver was always poorly as a lad. Frosts set inhardly my fault.
To cut the lecture short, Emily hung up. Margaret could turn a sniffle into an epidemic, and no doubt shed be round within the hour. Fine. Let her fussEmily had work to get to.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived bearing tins of herbal remedies. For his immune system, she declared. Emily let her get on with it.
Honestly, letting him lie there in a damp T-shirthell catch his death! How could you miss that?
Margaret, he was asleepwhat was I meant to do?
Emily left for work. A few hours in, she felt a weariness creep in. Oh nonot her too! But she couldnt let onhad to power through. That evening, she took her temperaturehigher than Olivers. She wanted to complain, but he was too busy examining his tongue in the mirror.
Chills, aches. Mum made me raspberry tea with honeyhelped a bit, but now Im rough again. What should I take?
Dunno. Feel a bit off myself
Well, take something then, Oliver said, still peering at his reflection. Still white. Fascinating.
Right. No falling ill. And no point whingingMum would ring every five minutes with advice, Margaret would blame her, and Oliver was in his own little world.
Decision made: no complaints, quiet pills, and soldier on. The mortgage wouldnt pay itself.
All week, Oliver wallowed in his suffering, acting as if no man had ever endured such hardshipeven when the thermometer read a steady 37, he insisted he was at deaths door.
Margaret bustled in daily with her tinctures and lectures. The last thing Emily wanted was another showdownshe looked dreadful enough already.
Oliver noticed nothingwhen he wasnt asleep, he was glued to the telly or his phone. Each night, Emily checked her temperature. By day four, it was normal.
The fatigue lingered, but shed muddled through. Olivers convalescence, however, dragged onmeals in bed, constant temperature checks, demands for drinks.
Margaret claimed hed been sickly as a child, but this was his first cold in five years of marriageand it was unbearable!
Every minor sniffle was a Herculean ordeal, complete with theatrical groans.
The following week, he was cleared for work. Alfie came home. Tomorrow, Oliver would be back at the office.
Over tea that evening, he sighed.
Honestly, I used to bounce back as a kid. But this? Brutal.
Was it really that bad?
Easy for you to sayyou werent the one suffering!
Actually, I was. You just didnt notice.
Oliver shot her a sceptical look, then grinned as if catching her out.
Joking, arent you? Ah wellbedtime!
Emily sighed. He hadnt noticed a thing.
Typical.
Like the old jokea woman whos given birth can only *begin* to fathom what a man endures at 37 degrees
