Husband headache

“You can write a blog about my poorliness, if you want” said my husband this evening. As he polished off the rest of Esther Walker’s best curry in the world, which I made over the weekend. It’s really been touch and go for him all day.

Last night he had a headache. He never has headaches.

It had nothing to do with playing cricket for several hours on Saturday, without much water, then drinking a sociable amount when we had friends for supper. And definitely nothing to do with drinking a very paternal amount for lunch yesterday, because it was fathers’ day (I prefer the apostrophe there) and the novelty of being able to order wine by the litre at Union Jacks was more than he could resist.

This morning he was too ill to get out of bed. Too weak even to sit up. “I can’t move!” came the forlorn voice from under the duvet. Logie bashed him on the head with his milk beaker to make sure, but it appeared to be true.

To be fair, I think he did have a bug, or at least dehydration.

Although today is Monday, he didn’t have to go to work, as we are on holiday this week. We’re going to Suffolk for three days tomorrow, then to Kent for my brother’s wedding.

“What shall we do?” asked the invalid.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the packing.”

“Should I go to the doctor?”

“Only if you think you’ve got meningitis or a brain tumour.”

I could actually see him weighing it up. It’s not his fault – living with a hypochondriac like me for three years is beginning to infect him.

Later that morning, I rang to check whether he was still with us. He confirmed that he was, though he was too weak to fill his glass with water. However, he thought he might just manage some duck paté, sourdough bread and a scotch egg for lunch, seeing as I was in the deli next to the osteopath.

On the way home, I stopped off at nursery to have a conversation with them about Logie, who has become a bit...oh, what’s the PC word...boisterous...lately, with other children. By which I mean he mugs them.

It peaked on Friday, at a friend’s house, when he repeatedly went up to both the other toddlers, hit them hard, preferably with an implement, and took their toy. Sometimes they didn’t even have a toy. And then he smiled. That afternoon, he attempted to push another boy off the climbing frame. We had words. He smiled.

But apparently he doesn’t do it at nursery. Interesting that, isn’t it? They have given me some of their lingo to try, eg “Please put that loud voice away” and “Look at your friend’s face – see how sad you’ve made her?”.

So we’re pretty much all packed. Jon has gone back to bed, because he fears he’s regressing apparently. I asked him if they were painful childhood memories but it didn’t raise a smile – he was too ill probably. I also asked if he had any tips for my eleven readers about his malady, seeing as he was so keen for me to write about it.

“Have a fairly good wife,” (he actually said “very”, or so he claims), “alternate paracetamol and ibuprofen, and rest.” To his credit, he then did the bins and recycling before returning to his sick bed. As a special treat he was granted permission to watch the rest of the county twenty20 in bed – I don’t normally allow cricket in bed unless it’s an international.

I stayed downstairs to watch Smash and write this. As I opened my laptop I got a text message: ‘I would be delighted to help out by eating a yog fanks pls next time you visit xxxxxxxx’. One minute later: ‘Can I have my yog soon please? Xxxxxxx’.

I took it up. “Oh, haven’t we got any blueberry ones?”

Roll on, happy holidays.