Kevin Page: Pitched battle with the winter nasties

Mrs P and I have been at war.

Not with each other, you understand, though there have been moments over the last few days where I've thought I could bury her in the vege garden and nobody would be any the wiser.

Actually, that's not true. There is very little activity in our vege garden at the best of times, so that would be a dead giveaway, if you'll forgive the pun.

And now that I think about it, I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs P had been having similar thoughts.

There was a moment the other morning when she was stirring my coffee, very noisily.
I'm sure she knew I had a thumping headache and was trying to make my head explode.
I expect I'm a bit paranoid on account of us both being a bit grumpy of late. As I say, we've been at war.

We've both been trying to fight off the flu.

A quick aside here.

I call it the "flu", as I suspect do millions of others around the world.

Mrs P, a trained medical professional with qualifications as long as your arm and a certificate for doing the 25 yard breaststroke in 1969, says it's not. Its just a cold. If it were actual influenza I'd basically be at death's door rather than just getting out the car before walking up the path to it. So quite a way from it, if you know what I mean.

Anyway.

Regardless of what it is that we've actually been fighting off we both felt pretty yuk.
Over the last week coughs progressed to sore throats which in turn progressed to periodic sniffs. Headaches were simmering in the background and there was the odd shiver and body ache.

Having been down this road before, as I'm sure most of you have, we followed the normal path when we're a bit ratty and did the blame thing first.

I reckon she brought it home from work and gave it to me and she reckoned I brought it home on the plane from my trip south and gave it to her.

If the truth be told she may have been right.

My trip down featured a snotty, coughing child not far from my seat so, allowing for a bit of incubation during my stay, the timing would be right.

Then, of course, there's the fact I probably passed on any germs when I gave her a full-on Hollywood blockbuster tonsil-tickling snog at the airport on my return. As you do. Well, she still completely floats my boat, and I'd been away so I thought why not?

So. Blame established, he says with a grin, we then made sure we had all the stuff we were going to need to do battle: Medications, tissues, vitamin C laden fruit, wood for the fire, remotes for the telly, duvets for the couch etc etc

I locked the front door and sat George The Dog down to explain a walk was unlikely that day but instead, as a special treat, he could lie in front of the warm fire and lick his private parts if he wanted without the usual frustration of Dad yelling at him to stop.
Then we hunkered down.

We got through that day with a mix of snoozing, vitamin C and channel surfing. Who would have thought pushing the buttons on the remote could make you ache so much?

The next morning I braved the fresh air of the outside world to take a dog with exceptionally clean private parts out for a quick stroll, then it was back inside for more TCD - telly, couch and duvet.

By the following day we were feeling a bit better. The fluey thing was still hanging around, but it felt like it had packed its bags and was waiting at the station to head off elsewhere.

We've opened the curtains now and have allowed the light of a fresh new dawn to seep into our bones, raising the hope that this thing may have finally passed.
I think I may celebrate.

Wonder if Mrs P would be up for a full-on Hollywood blockbuster tonsil-tickling snog?