Sleepless
I’m very tired. No, I’m not expecting any sympathy (nor likely to get any to be honest). This is mainly due to two things: firstly, poor #1 has the cough to end all coughs and hacked, constantly through the night. Secondly, I happened to mention in passing to the plumber yesterday that Hubby was away for the night and that I would be alone in the house (duh). Being a bit of a worrier, I then spent the entire night worrying that he might have gone down the pub, had a few beers, and mentioned to the local burglar/robber/crack addict (delete as applicable) who happened to be sitting next to him that the ravishingly attractive (okay, he might not have said that) but rather cowardly inside-dog-keeping English woman in the cottage down from the farm happened to be spending the night all alone in her dark, isolated house. I therefore spent the night alternately jumping out of my skin at every tiny click and crack that the house made and being blown half out of my bed every time #1 had another coughing fit of epic proportions next door. When I finally nodded off, I dreamt of being burgled and calling the Gards only for them to find that they got lost and had to call me back on my mobile while I was being tied to a kitchen chair by said robber to ask directions.
It could be lack of sleep, then, or third-degree madness, that saw me standing in front of the pharmacist at Boots this morning asking #1 if he wouldn’t mind coughing for the lady so that she could determine the correct medicine to suit his particular needs. Of course, having hacked, coughed and gagged through the entire night, he’d used them all up and couldn’t conjure up a single teensy ‘ahem’ until the moment we’d walked back out of Boots and were heading for the car. Now happily parked back in front of the telly with a warm mug of honey and lemon, a packet of biscuits and the remote control, he can once again cough for Ireland and has just asked me if I’d mind ‘putting the fire out’ (how?) because he’s a bit warm and doesn’t really want to come out from under his blanket because it’s comfy. I’m in the process of counting backwards from ten just in case I get the desire to beat him to death with a bottle of Calpol before Hubby gets home.
