I have spent much of today wallowing in the sort of self-pity that comes from an excruciating, behind-the-eyes headache.
By lunchtime, with some help from the mighty Doctor Internet, I had convinced myself that I was suffering from migraine, stress, high blood pressure and a brain tumour, and was considering writing my last requests. These included not leaving my remains to Mark to be disposed of, as I do not wish to spend the rest of eternity abandoned in a box with a couple of spanners and some might-be-useful bits of wire and a U bend, on a shelf underneath his work bench.
I spent the day sloping about miserably, doing bits of things and then putting them down wearily, rubbing my eyes and wishing that I could go back to bed.
I could not go back to bed because that would have been a shocking dereliction of duty. I have a responsibility to keep the bathroom clean and provide puddings for dinner. I cannot simply shirk off and leave my menfolk to fend for themselves.
This is the route to a successful marriage generally adopted by those who are too idle to bother making themselves look beautiful. My experience is that men do not care about puddings and scrubbed lavatories if they are married to women with glorious manes of blonde hair, curled eyelashes, lip gloss and intriguing silhouettes.
I like puddings too much myself to have an intriguing silhouette, and so my contribution to the marriage partnership is confined to polishing, sanitation and catering, with an occasional sideline in helpful criticism.
I rang Mark, who was at work, to tell him about it, and he sniffed a bit, and said that it was very probably an allergy.
I have spent the last couple of days building my archway in the conservatory.
The chicken wire has scratched my hands to bits.
Regular readers might recall that I am allergic not only to nickel in metals, but also to some sort of rogue fungus which dwells in soil and tree bark, and which makes my hands itch like mad.
Mark thought that when I had scratched my hands and arms, which make me look very much as though I have been fighting for my life with a bellicose blackberry bush, I might have absorbed some nickel and fungus into my cuts.
When I looked at my hands I realised that they had swollen to the size of small balloons, and were prickling as if Macbeth was expected to pop round for lunch.
I stopped trying to be brave. I took some anti-histamine tablets and a cup of tea, and went to sit in front of the computer to see if I could make our fortunes by spending Mark’s pension on profitable shares.
To my extreme irritation, incidentally, I failed completely to purchase Oliver’s shares in Roblox, which appeared on to the stock market today. This was because, eventually I discovered, that they were such a Hot Commodity that the eager young chaps on the New York trading floors were buying the lot, leaving none available for hopeful taxi drivers, trying to storm the world of international finance from their bedrooms in Windermere.
I tried and tried and tried, but to no avail. By the end of the day the stock had increased in value by 73%, and we had not managed to purchase a single share.
Ah well.
Despite this disappointment, I am very pleased to tell you that the anti-histamine tablets shifted the headache with such astonishing speed that they have moved into prime position as my favourite ever drug, beating alcohol, and even codeine, which was such a happiness when I had the abscess on my tooth, absolutely hands down.
Within an hour I was both cheerful and bursting with energy, except by then it was too late.
The afternoon had worn on, and I had hardly achieved anything. It was too late for archway-construction, and too
I went belting round, sweeping and hanging sheets up to dry, inside because of the lashing rain in the garden, and salved my conscience by making a chocolate cake, complete with fudge-chocolate cream for pudding.
Everybody has got to have a purpose in life.
Have a picture of the author with some worrying sheep.
