A cold that's stretched a fortnight; I'm no good with a boggled head.
I usually shake the sneezes with a little rest, a mug of hot lemon water, a dash of exercise; usually yoga, and I really thought the mucus monster nipped in the bud - energy dial up, tissue box returned to shelf - the day before Little A's birthday party. S'not.
How could I have forgotten the year before? How exhausting, how dementor sucking the preschooler soiree. This year, the sandwiches and cake were ordered; but I still fought wind and rain to the shop, in the name of perfect sandwich triangles, inch thick chocolate icing, an intermission from mummy's slapdash baking. Actually, I never bake. Two hours before kick-off, a panic, the table cloths, there were no table cloths, I'd forgotten to order them. You can't have a party without plastic sheeting. After berating the omission on the to-do list, wagging finger at jelly head, I found myself back in the car, back in the city centre, back in the budget priced oasis of Pound World.
I don't remember much of it, the party. A haze of food preparation, tea making, and scattered snowflakes. There was the magician - mad cap chequered trousers, high pitched helium voice - made for the job. There was plate spinning. The parachute. The tidying up. I hardly had chance to catch up with anyone, let alone enjoy Little A throwing herself into magic tricks, chasing her friends around the hall.
The morning of Little A's actual birthday, Younger Dad announced, 'we are going to the Natural History Museum.' We are? Little A had a cough, hacking like a pneumatic drill. I felt rank, a pair of mouldy old pants, eyeing up the paracetamol like a box of chocolate buttons. 'We still have to go,' Younger Dad said, 'it's Little A's birthday.' And he was right of course. Lurgy or no lurgy, we were off to see the dinosaurs. Roarrr.
It wasn't long before I wilted in the Actual History Museum (Little A's words), a bag of old bones among the other old bones. Younger Dad and I cheerfully bickered...
OM 'I'm sure there was a T-Rex in the main hall last time.'
YD 'No, it's always been a Diplodocus.'
OM 'That can't be right, there was definitely a T-Rex.'
YD 'Darling, trust me, it's been a Diplodocus. Always.'
OM 'No, I'm not so sure.'
YD 'Diplodocus, I'm telling you.'
OM 'I'm sure there was a T-Rex,'...
Ailing Mummy found herself dumped in the cafe, consoling herself with a mug of hot chocolate, popping more chocolate buttons. By the time Younger Dad and Little A had returned from insects and birds, I had begun the process of petrification, a stuffed cat, staring at a pensioner's raincoat. 'It's time to go now,' Younger Dad said. I looked up at him, 'ugh?'
Tea time, back home, Little A had a roarrring temperature, while I continued petrifying on the sofa. In our jim jams we stayed for the next twenty four hours...
I've only just made it to the other side, viral free; but I'm still in a grump. Meh.
Do you breeze through colds, or, like me, moan on your death bed?