Monday, 13 September 2010

Man flu

Last week was a long one. It had a particularly tantrumy start on Monday morning with a lot of porridge flinging and wiping and general mind-changing. Amid the bafflement of ‘Milk or juice? Ok, milk. Oh, no ok, here’s the juice. Wrong again – milk it is. Or neither… no, the cat doesn’t want it…’ there was a certain amount of shaking coming from upstairs. With husband being ill, I’d left him sick in bed. ‘Daddy must be feeling better,’ I told no one in particular. ‘It sounds like he’s having a shower.’ I continued to field the grumping until we left for nursery. 

On my return, it seemed husband’s preparations for work had taken a noisier turn. As I opened up my laptop, it began to tremble to a sequence of furious thuds from above. I moved suddenly into panic mode – he must have fallen over! Or was he dying? Rushing up the stairs, flinging open the bedroom door, my heart pounded. What would I find?