As Sick as a Small Hospital

“Tis Healthy to be sick sometimes”

-          Henry David Thoreau

 I have been unwell.  I was overtaken by a miserable virus last week, and God, did I share my suffering with poor His Nibs.

It was on a Saturday that I first started to feel under the weather.  I had a really bad headache, I had the cold sweats even though I was roasting, and I felt a bit staggery, sort of faint and dizzy at the same time.

His Nibs isn’t the greatest nurse in the land.  When I’m sick, he tends to assume I’m grand and that I’m just having a moan until my symptoms become so pronounced that he can’t ignore them anymore.  Then he makes me a cup of tea and hopes that will count as taking care of me, until I start making demands on his time and energy.  These demands involve everything from constant tea making, driving from one supermarket to the other, trying to find the specific items that I insist are the only thing that will aid my recovery.  And woe betide him if he brings back the wrong things.  The great “They’re not satsumas, they’re clementines” war of my last flu will long be remembered in this house.

Looking after a sick person doesn’t come easy to him.  All he wants is for me to get over my illness and stop moaning, so that he can go back to his life and be left alone, as quickly as possible.

I’m not a great patient either, to be fair.  There’s a lot of presenting me with endless treats to amuse and entertain me while I wait for the worst of my malady to pass.  And a lot of sighing and throwing these treats aside from me.

So he decided that he’d just ignore my symptoms, in the hope that I’d put up and shut up and not ruin his weekend.  I hadn’t the energy for any sort of a row or giving out.  I had to use dirty tactics to get his attention and make him my nurse.

I started by trying to be a bit classy about it all.  This involved going all Victorian.  You know the sort of thing, referring to feeling faint as swooning, and declaring that I had the vapours when I was feeling shaky and nauseous.  I even lay down with my hand to my head to signify the seriousness of my complaints.  But I got feck all satisfaction for my efforts.  He just asked me whether I was putting it all on, that I looked a bit dramatic.

This lack of sympathy didn’t please me.  But I decided that I could force a bit of empathy out of him, he isn’t an unkind man, it couldn’t be that difficult.  I took it upon myself to tell him every detail of every symptom, as it happened.  It was quite tiring, actually.

“I’m roasting.  Is the heating on?”

“No, and it’s not that warm in here.  Maybe you have a temperature?”

“I don’t know.  Feel my forehead, see if it’s hot.”

He would patiently put the back of his hand to my forehead, while picking up the mugs for another tea run with the other hand.

“Actually no, you feel quite clammy.”

“Oh God, I must have a really high temperature.”

“It’s not that clammy, love, you’re grand.  Anyway, on the television they always so “Oh my God, you’re burning up” if someone has a temperature, so you must have the opposite, since you feel cold, a low temperature."

“You don’t care about me at all, do you?”

Then a few minutes later I would remind him of how bad my headache was, or insist he stare at my outstretched hand and exclaim at how it was trembling.

But there was a limit to how dramatic I could be.  I had to rein it in a bit.  I had limited options, I couldn’t start ranting and raving and threatening to leave him.  There’s only the pair of us in the house.  If I drove him too far around the bend I’d have to do my own tea making, and would have to get dressed and venture outside to buy my own fruit and possibly chocolate.

He suggested that since I felt so awful I go to bed and go to sleep.  I refused, and announced that I would stay downstairs and keep him company, but that I’d be staying in my pyjamas.  That meant, of course, that he would have to do all the running around after dogs, and go to the shop to cater to my demands, and make tea and snacks,  but still listen to me moaning.  Eventually he stopped suggesting I go to bed, and told me to go. By mid afternoon he was trying to bribe me.  If I went to bed he’d bring me up more tea, he’d keep all the dogs downstairs and I could watch Netflix in peace and quiet.  And still I refused.  Eventually he tried to flat out send me to bed.  Only when I knew he was getting really sick of me did I go.  It was nice, actually, tea and Netflix in my cosy nest.  At least I’d put up a fight. 

But I couldn’t help thinking nostalgically of the happy Saturdays when he used to invite me to bed, not send me.

I was sick the whole week. To be honest, dare I say it, I’m still not fabulously well.  I’m wrecked all the time. But I’m back in work now.  It’s a struggle for me to stay alert for the whole working day.  Thank God this is the week that His Nibs is driving us both up and down to work.  I get my car sleep in the mornings, and again in the evenings on my way home.   And as soon as I walk in the door I’m back in my pyjamas.  Last weekend, after a week out of work, I barely got dressed, and it didn’t even cross my mind to put on makeup.  There’s a great freedom, for me, in this level of laziness.  And all the lying down and taking naps suits me down to the ground.

One of the more unusual aspects of this illness, for me, was that I had no gastric symptoms at all.  I thought of those ads, before there was any such thing as Advertising Standards, when sugar laden products like Lucozade and Mars bars were sold as health giving products for sick people.  Of course those ads relied entirely on people not knowing that glucose is just sugar.  I convinced myself that maybe there had been some truth to them, and that since I wasn’t feeling pukey I should make the most of my lying down and watching Netflix time by eating some chocolate.  That swiftly led to the onset of wild nausea.

And that’s when things got very tedious.  His Nibs was getting fed up of my ongoing moaning, I couldn’t eat anything, it’s amazing how fast lying in bed pitying yourself gets boring.   And I was genuinely sick.  It’s not like I could go out and kick up my heels once I got fed up of the whole thing.

I can finally see why His Nibs is such a disappointing caregiver.  Maybe if he was married to someone else he’d be spectacular.  I got so fed up listening to myself moaning, and sighing and carrying on that if I could have ignored myself I would have.  I ended up feeling sorrier for him than I did for myself.

Is a Change as good as a Rest?

“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort”

– Jane Austen

The summer is over.  Winter is definitely on its way.  People are wearing heavier coats, I haven't seen a flip flop in a few weeks, and Brown Thomas has opened their Christmas shop.  Apparently.  I wouldn't know.  To be honest, I don't tend to frequent the hallowed halls of Brown Thomas.  I find it a bit intimidating.  I can't afford anything in there so I just walk around, looking like an extremely well fed Little Match Girl among the fragrant women with their personal shoppers. 

His Nibs and I went out on Saturday, to Tipperary.  There's a lovely place there, with guest rooms and a fabulous restaurant.  About once a year His Nibs and I like to go for a gorgeous dinner, and maybe a drink, and a night away from the noisy hounds we usually share our lives with.  It's the perfect place for dinner.  It’s nice enough to wear your makeup, but because of the cobbled courtyard only a fool would wear her heels.  It suits me very well.

And that was our holidays for the year.  One night, in Tipperary.  We were delighted with ourselves.  For here is our confession.
We don't want to go on our holidays abroad anymore.

There's an exception of course.  I'd love to go and see my family in Chicago.  But if they lived on the moon I'd want to go there.  That's about my family, not the travelling.  In fact, I consider the fact that they are so far away as the price I must pay for seeing them.

I'm gone right off travelling.  The endless work and panicking and stress.  So has His Nibs.

In fact, for the first time ever, neither of us even has a valid passport. 

First of all there's the awful visit to the waxing salon to get assaulted by a stranger in preparation for going out in public in a swimsuit, of all things.  Then there’s the trip to the shops, trawling around looking for holiday clothes, in a large size.  There is no wraparound skirt or flip flops that can make a woman my size look like a lithe sun goddess.  I spend hours in dressing rooms, sweaty and panting, trying to get into capri pants or even worse, swimwear, miserable and furious.

Then there's the stupid packing.  I hate packing.  I leave it to the last minute in the hope that the pressure of time will give me the gift of packing a capsule wardrobe into a suitcase without roaring and shouting and digging through the laundry basket and threatening His Nibs.  And then I tip it all out and declare that I haven't a stitch that I'm not ashamed of (which is true) and that based on my wardrobe I'm not going on holidays (which is not).

I don’t understand people who love the airport.  From the minute we start arguing about the directions to the long term car park, the long queue to check in, me wandering into shops and him trying to drag me out of them.  We're usually fit to kill each other by the time we get on the plane.  And obviously getting on the plane invariably happens at about five in the pigging morning.

I'm not mad about the plane either, to be honest.  It's too squashy and boring and His Nibs won't stop talking to me, usually on the topic of "Great Air Crashes I have read about" and stopping me from going to sleep.

We always have a row waiting for the luggage.  His Nibs declares that it's all taking too long, he needs a cigarette, he'll go on without me, since it's my luggage we're waiting for.  (He could leave home for good with nothing more than a small rucksack.)   I swear that if he moves a muscle without me by his side I will go straight to the ticket desk and get a flight back home again.  While this foolishness is going on, we are surrounded by other couples and families having the same row.  And everyone has the same expression on their face.  The one that says "Christ almighty, how am I supposed to put up with this eejit for two weeks?"

It seems to take forever to get to wherever we’re staying.  And let’s face facts, it’s always a disappointment.  You might open the door and declare that it’s perfect, and it’s quaint or lovely or ideal for your needs.  But isn’t some part of you thinking “For God’s sake, I can’t even close the door without having to move the table”?

It’s a long time since we’ve been on a sun holiday, but I’ve never stayed in an “apartment” that’s as big as my kitchen at home.  It’s all very well when you first arrive.  The sun is shining and you think you’ll never be in the room anyway, and it doesn’t matter.  But it does matter. I try to completely ignore the sense of impending doom I get when I open my suitcase and realise that the contents are so extensive that they could easily cover the floor of this room twice over.  And that the wardrobe is the size of my knicker drawer at home, and there’s only two hangers, so that even if I make the effort to be tidy and keep things in order, it’s a project doomed to failure. And we’ll definitely have a row at some stage when he kicks a mascara off the balcony, or steps on the plug of my hair straightener and hobbles himself.

All this used to be worth it, years ago, when I could think of no better way to spend two weeks than lying by a swimming pool, gently barbecuing myself, before getting gussied up for a night on the town every night.

I’m afraid we’re gone too old and grumpy for those pursuits.  It's grand for a few days, but we get fed up of it.  I spend longer, these days, getting ready for sunbathing, than I do enjoying it.  It takes ages to find my sunglasses, and choose a book, and put on my sunblock, and find a sun lounger far away from where other people’s children are cannon balling into the pool and incessantly splashing the sunbathers.

And when I finally do achieve the dream, and get the right spot, and lie down, and take out my book before realising the sun is too bright to read, I get bored in less than five minutes.

“What am I doing?” I wonder to myself.  “It’s half past ten in the morning, and I’m lying here, roasting, wearing cream to stop myself from getting a serious burn, wishing I was wearing a burka instead of this stupid skimpy yoke.  If I was at home, sure, it’d be cold, but I’d be in my own bed, in my own house, wearing what I like, His Nibs would make me coffee whenever I want it, if I decided to get out of the bed, there’s no chance a stranger would jump into it, not like this fecking uncomfortable sun lounger.”

It's not that I don’t like sunshine and nice weather.  But I’m happy with Irish sunshine and nice weather, such as it is.  Or moaning about the lack of it.

Then, when it gets to lunchtime,  I start moaning again.  “Feck it, I was out last night.  A ham sandwich would do me grand.  I don’t want more chips.  But sure if I start trying to cook something in that little room I’ll set fire to the place.  All my books are piled up on the hob.  There wasn’t room for them anywhere else.  God, I’m roasting.  Maybe I’ll go shopping.  No, I won’t.  All the shops have the same souvenirs, and all I want is a new mascara to replace the one His Nibs kicked off the balcony.  If I was at home I’d just go to Boots.”

His Nibs isn’t usually party to all this.  He’ll have headed for the hills, literally.  He can’t bear to lie by a pool, he’d rather go to work.  He’ll have taken off on a walk in the early hours of the morning, and will be up a distant hill.  And just as the sun gets to its highest point he’ll realise that his scalp is burning and he’s dehydrated, and it’ll take ages to walk back.  He’s like a nettle by the time he gets back to our little shoebox.

We’ve given it all up.  Feck it.  We’re as well off in our own house, giving out about the weather, but not actually minding.  And he can go out and do his gardening and I’ll be inside reading my books and making up stories.  When we get hungry we’ll at least have a choice of whether to go out or not.  And if His Nibs gets all antsy and bored I’ll just hitch up three dogs and send them all off on a walk, and maybe take an afternoon nap for myself.

Cleaning up our Act

 “My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance”

-          Erma Bombeck.

-          And His Nibs, apparently

There is trouble afoot.  The hot smell of rebellion is in the air.  For His Nibs has taken offence to the most relaxed housework regime in the world.

It started last Friday.  I informed His Nibs that since Sunday was All Ireland day, the housework would have to be completed on Saturday.  I’ve been out of the house a bit lately, seeing my relations.  This was my first full weekend in the house in five weeks.  I’m not a complete slattern, I’d been doing bits and pieces of housework as I went along. His Nibs, who’s been in the house every weekend, had been doing nothing to keep our domestic life germ free.  The house needed a massive dusting and tidy and general clean up.

I am the daughter of two GAA fanatics, and the wife of His Nibs, who has taken fanaticism to a new level.  So I know that there is no question of getting anything done on All Ireland day.  His Nibs is too excited in the morning, he runs around ringing his hurling friends, and making predictions and being unbearable.  And in the afternoon, he likes to sit in front of the television, screaming foul language and still being unbearable.

So we couldn’t leave the housework until Sunday.

The thing is, we’re supposed to go away next weekend, to a lovely little guesthouse down in Tipperary.  They have a lovely restaurant there and we like to treat ourselves to a nice dinner and an overnight every year or so.  We were going to leave our dogs in the kennels, but almost as soon as we decided to go, we both started trying to bagsy not having to drop them off.  It’s just too awful.  They cry and act as though they’re only there to be slaughtered.  Eventually His Nibs asked his lovely sister and her partner to come to our house on Saturday to mind the three of them until Sunday.  They must be as brave as lions.

His Nibs’ sister doesn’t give a flying feck about the condition of our house.  But I can’t sleep nights for worrying about what she’ll think.  I meant to get around to cleaning out the wardrobes that my sister in law will never open, and tidy up the boxroom that’s full of notebooks and pens and bits of paper, which she’ll never be in.

I have to clean the fridge before she arrives.  I’d hate her to think there’s any chance that her brother could be poisoned from eating in his own house.  There’s junk mail sitting in the postbox waiting for me to rifle through it and grumble about the environment.  And in an ideal world I’d have cleaned out the kitchen cabinets, even though they’ll probably have a takeaway.

His Nibs knows me too well.  He knew that if he started the housework last Saturday that he’d never be allowed to stop.  I’d keep adding things for him to do until he lost his will to live.

On Friday night when I told him that the housework was to be completed on Saturday, he agreed quickly enough, obviously not willing to get into an argument and ruin his Friday night.

We agreed that we would get up early on Saturday morning, and do the housework with great energy and enthusiasm.  As per our usual routine, we agreed that since he wakes up at the crack of dawn every morning, he would be responsible for waking me up for the dreary chores.

I woke up at ten thirty on Saturday morning.  Deciding that I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I roared downstairs for coffee, and as His Nibs brought it up the stairs, I prepared to give out stink for the delay in cleaning the house.

As he walked into the room, he was wearing a very brazen face.

“I’ll throw this coffee down, good and quick, and we can get on with cleaning the house.”

“No.  I’m not doing housework today.”

“Feck off.  We have a deal.  We’re cleaning the house today.”

“I don’t care.  We’ll do it tomorrow.”

I was mystified.  We had a deal.  I knew there was no point, but I went on and on about it, and tried to cajole him into doing the housework immediately.  He was having none of it.

"Sure, you won’t be able to do it tomorrow, you’ll be watching the All Ireland”.

“A hurling match lasts seventy minutes, love.  It’ll be grand.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?  I haven’t forgotten what All Ireland day is like.  You won’t even go out for lunch.”

“Ah, I will.  There’ll be loads of time.”

Nothing I could do would move him.  He just wouldn’t do it.  He wanted to have a relaxing day on Saturday, it seems, to prepare for All Ireland day.  Since that would be a busy day anyway, he might as well do the housework on Sunday morning.

I hate housework.  I hate it with a passion.  Every second I spend cleaning or ironing or hoovering, there is a fiery poison of resentment burning within me.  So I wasn’t willing to do everything on my own.  Especially considering that I was still living in a fantasy world where “doing the housework” would involve cleaning out every cupboard and washing the skirting boards. I’m such a deluded eejit.  I allowed myself to be talked into delaying the plan for twenty-four hours.  It never takes much to talk me into not doing housework.

God be with the halcyon days when we had a cleaner.  After our last cleaner gave up, suffering from exhaustion, I assume, His Nibs announced that we would not be getting a new one, that we needed to save some money and that from now on we would do it all ourselves.  When I think about how easily I gave in, I want to kick myself senseless.

The same arrangement was made.  His Nibs would wake me on Sunday morning, and the work would begin good and early.  We would finish in time to go to lunch.

Again, I was not woken on Sunday morning.  His Nibs, on realising I was conscious, roared up that he’d make coffee, but I had to come downstairs to drink it.  On my way down the stairs, I met him on his way up.  I assumed he was off for a shower.  Or maybe to get the laundry basket.  Or even do a bit of tidying or dusting.  I went to the kitchen and had my coffee. 

He never came back.

I went upstairs.  He was in bed, ready for a nap.  I became furious, of course.  I started shouting, to no effect.

He announced that he’d once again been up from six in the morning, and he needed a nap before he could undertake his domestic duties.  It was fine, he promised.  He’d sleep for an hour, clean, then have a late lunch.  He wouldn’t be watching the match live anyway, he told me.  He’d tape it, and skip all the adverts.  Nothing I did would get him out of the fecking bed.  I did everything he usually does to me on a weekday morning.  I roared and shouted, I ran away with the duvet.  I set the dogs on him.  Of course they just cuddled up to him and made him nice and cosy, despite the lack of duvet.  He wouldn’t move. 

He slept for two solid hours.  I didn’t even notice at the time, because I was doing the fecking ironing.  I was swearing under my breath so much that I didn’t even feel the time passing.  Then he strolled down the stairs and announced he was hungry.  And after he was fed, he announced that he had to watch the match live, or all his hurling friends would be ringing him and telling him the outcome.  They’d ruin it for him.

It was only when he said this that I acknowledged that open lies had been told to fool me into letting him away with the housework.  I was beside myself.  I was reduced to singing so loud over his hurling match.  His Nibs can’t bear it when I sing.  I don’t know why.

Eventually he dragged his grumpy carcass around the house, hauling the hoover behind him, with much drama.  While I was scrubbing the kitchen and dusting and putting away laundry and doing various other things, he got as far as the stairs before he declared that he felt sick.  This was ignored.  So he hoovered.  But that was it.  He didn’t clean the bathrooms.  He didn’t even wash the floors.

I’ve had to tell him that we can’t go away next weekend.  There’s no way I can let anyone into the house, the state of the place.