Stop Christmas, I Want to Get Off!
I’d quite like to put the Thinly Spread Family machine into reverse, go back a couple of weeks and start again. We’re having one of ‘Those’ Christmases. You know the ones – when everyone drops like flies coughing sneezing and wheezing, when the benefits of us both being self employed are outweighed by the fact that no one feels much like paying before Christmas and when couriers decide to cock up our big delivery which means the birthday boy won’t be receiving his present on his birthday after all.
I was feeling a little bit perkier yesterday after my long bout of ‘it’s not flu but it’s not far off’ and managed to drive myself to Bristol to sit in a cupboard with headphones and a microphone and natter to Jane Garvey on Woman’s Hour as if it was the sort of thing I do every day. I even managed not to cough and splutter in her ears and, apparently, to sound like a grown up.
It was too good to last. Mr Thinly Spread mentioned in passing (when I called him so he could tell me how proud he was of my performance) that he had bitten his tongue. I didn’t think too much more about it, I mean, you don’t do you? Everyone bites their tongue every now and again. But Mr TS never does anything by halves and six hours later, when he returned to our arms, it was still bleeding.
I bundled everyone else up to go and see Bonus Boy as Father Christmas in the school production leaving my beloved prostrate and silent. Two hours later he was still leaking and he took himself off to minor injuries while I juggled children into bed, out to clubs and wondered how on earth I was going to gather everyone back in without an extra pair of hands or waking sleeping children.
He returned in the nick of time to announce (very quietly with pen paper and a complicated game of charades) that he had bitten through a blood vessel and it would probably need stitching. Our hospital couldn’t do it and, if we reached that point, we would have to go to Bath to the specialist tongue stitcher upper (who knew?!).
One totally sleepless night later (why he insisted on pacing the WOODEN sitting room floor in WOODEN clogs is beyond me) he looked at me and gave in. I cancelled helping on the school trip, delivered children to schools and rushed back to saddle up my trusty steed and whisk him off to be repaired.
But then… it stopped. Why is it always the way that when you finally decide to go to the doctors everything calms down? I’m still on standby for whisking but, as I write, he is lying down, not bleeding and has managed to eat a little leek and potato soup and drink some apple juice.
The Tallest Two finish at lunchtime tomorrow, DG and Bonus Boy on Friday. The Norovirus is stalking our town…we need to get to the end of this endless week and then I am pulling up the drawbridge until 2013!
So, *fake cheerful face*, how’s it going for you?!