Carole’s ill.

She’s got a croaky voice and feels like shit.

It’s all downhill from here. I mean, there’s a chance that she might lose her voice entirely but you can’t rely on things like that.

We have very different approaches to illness.

I favour a more hands-off approach. I might be ill, and I might piss and moan about it a bit but generally I prefer it if I’m just left alone to suffer in silence (once I’ve done the complaining, that is) and just get better. I don’t like people fussing over me and making sure I have everything I need. I much prefer to rummage through the medicine drawer myself and get cross when there’s no Lemsips.

Carole, on the other hand, is pathetic when she’s ill. Not only is she going to die at any given moment – even tonight, as I tried to get her to stop talking and go to sleep, she has proclaimed that she’ll probably be dead in the morning. And this is just the start of it. There will be numerous fetch quests for me over the next couple of days, I fear. The house will not be able to hold enough chocolate or nibbles to keep her on the road to recovery and there will be repeated begging for me to walk to Tesco to get her more of the good stuff. By which I mean Freddos.

I don’t like it when she’s ill. I don’t like to see her suffer. And, you know, I feel bad when her constant tossing and turning causes me to demand she leaves the bed and find somewhere to sleep where she won’t disturb anyone else. Not that I can really play that card anymore when only one of us has to get up stupid early for work. I guess she gets to keep the bed and I have to find alternative arrangements.

Although given that she is, you know, almost certainly going to die during the night based on her own prognosis maybe that’s for the best.