Hullo ma wee blog,
My razor-shredded throat wrenches yet another lung-destroying cough from a windpipe made of sandpaper raw flesh. My nostrils, stuffed full of tightly packed mucous laced with shards of glass, force pressure jets of pain back along my sinus to ears blocked with clay, reverberating with every agonising whisper yet resistant to any attempt by external sounds to enter. My head is being beaten mercilessly by a Brazilian samba ensemble on speed and the drummer from Spear Of Destiny's nastier, but more rythmic, big brother. They seem to have been locked in competition inside my head for days. I force open eyelashes stuck with tapioca and let in blinding light to eviscerate my retinas with lightning bolts.
Still alive then.
I groan, in manly, near silent agony, shielding the worries from my nearest and dearest, who gather round in a candle-lit vigil, singing hymns, praying for the soul not yet departed. I heroically leave my deathbed propped on legs of straw and head barefoot to the bathroom over cold concrete floors strewn with glass, nails and edge on razor blades, joints aching and now retching phlegm like some neglected Victorian victim in the final throes of a gruesome terminal disease, as my loved ones reel back in fear and dread. Ice cold, shaking and with cold-sweat dripping from my suddenly emaciated body, I endure the vicious onslaught of nostril-evacuation while I perform the necessary last rites of ablution.
I return to my hard, unyielding bed, pull the thin, meagre sack-cloth covering over me and surrender myself to the unalterable course of this brutal viral infection rampaging through my weakened being, calling for my darling wife to contact the medical profession and advise my cold cadaver will be with them shortly. I give permission for my corpse to be used for study, for the benefit of humanity. Several medical conundrums will surely finally be resolved. I lie comforted by the sure and certain knowledge that my life insurance will see my lovely G rest in luxury for the foreseeable future. I close my eyes and try to fade away quietly - for her sake.
I hear a bell softly ring and a distant sing-song voice calls mournfully,
"Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead."
I bloody hate the flu.......
I take a last look at the lovely G.
"Your looking better. How about making me a nice cup of tea?"
see you later.........
13 comments:
I hope The Lovely G appreciates how badly us chaps suffer from flu. Sounds like she's in a win-win situation, in whichever direction your flu develops. Best wishes for a speedy recovery. Andrew
My goodness--you are in a dire way! However, you haven't lost your gift for describing life's ironies--and hopefully this is not a deathbed scene.
I shall tune in for the next chapter and trust that you will be feeling better--although doubtless weakened by this ordeal.
Seriously, be WELL!
It's either just the teeniest, miniscule bit of poetic licence or gross male exagerration, depending way you look at it - the right way, or the harsh,unforgiving and unreasonable female way..........
Like Arnie, I'll be baack. Probably never be the same again, mind, just a mere shell of the man I once was.
regards.....Al.{lol}
You sound really ill to me Al !
Man 'flu can be such a devastating, debilitating illness for us and we know the woman hasn't been born yet who can really understand .,., but I'm sure you're taking painful time to expain all the details to G
Get well soon kid !
Scudder
I think it's critical that all the symptoms and effects are related back in real time so they can be passed on for study once I'm gone. I thought that the lovely G was at my bedside recording it all, but strangely have had to call her to come up from the lounge several times. I think she may be worried about contagion, poor thing.
Of course, it's agony to do that, but I don't let that stop me. Some things are more important......
Al, you poor sod! As a biologist, I can confirm that there is evidence suggesting the male of our species does suffer worse from actual 'flu. Obviously man flu is something else altogether but yours sounds like The Full Monty. Spear of Destiny, eh? You poor, poor sod! Cheers and a speedy recovery, SNB
Sending 'Get Well' wishes from Norfolk, surprised there were no wee drams mentioned . . . . very medicinal.
Or so I hear.
Hoping it's all over soon :-D
SNB - Ouch, how can you mock tha afflicted at at time like this. I only ever saw SOD once when my brother in law's band were on stage before them. It was unforgetable in an ear shattering way though.
You're right though. It's so 'Full Monty' that I should be doing the post office dance sequence.....
Kadeeae - I fear I am too weak to prise open any of the several precious bottles in the house and the lovely G is of the opinion that if I'm really dying, what use the water of life......
Wish I wasn't so well insured!
Thanks All.
Bye.
{Collapses back onto the pillows.....}
Woe is me.........
Good Lord Al, sounds like you have Man Flu big time. Of course, you know the time-old remedy? The chilli-pepper-and-ice-cold-tea enema? Would you like me to send the lovely G the recipe perchance? I believe just the mention of it has a sick man on his feet in seconds . . .
Ok, ok, I'm up.....
Feeling much better so no chilli-pepper and ice cream enemas needed.
Jings!!!
lucky escape or what!
cheers....Al.{lol}
LOL. Yes, indeed, I relate(d). Suspect it's due to a more aggressive immune response.
BTW, I just realized that we share an appreciation for Ridley Scott, Babette's Feast and Bill Bryson, among others.
Still alive.
Ha - I immediately thought of this when reading your recent entry on being ill. I'm glad you made it through.
We're also clearly people of discernment too
Ahh, Alistair. I don't have the flu, nor am I cleared for your grade of poetic license, but I have a dreadfully dull and time-consuming head cold.
Let us agree to get better, soon.
Pearl
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