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Blog virgin alert! Tickled to be writing anything at all. IF I write anything at all... |
| I've known for a while that talking complete rubbish is addictive because it's all I ever do, but to come home after what felt like an extremely long day walking through treacle and type rubbish? That seems to have superseded addiction and become more of a mental illness. Or is fetish a more politically correct term for it? Anyway, after being kept too long on a train to work, fighting my way through maunderers at the station while swearing profusely behind their backs, arriving at work and wishing I hadn't, spending the day at work and wishing I hadn't, I arrived home hoping to be tickled by anything, anything at all, and .... wished I hadn't. My husband, who spent the weekend in bed with an injured shoulder, has now decided to grow measles. Measles aren't at all entertaining in a 38 year old man. They're not very entertaining when you're five, but at least there's a feeling of relief that you've got them out the way and you won't remember them after they've left you - or at least, that's what the parental types told you at the time. My husband has a low tolerance for physical discomfort and through overexposure, I've also developed a similarly low tolerance for his physical discomfort which causes all manner of arguments even when he's not persistently scratching his armpits. The least entertaining thought I'm currently having is that I might have the measle too. If it is a measle. It might be a whole new disease, the like of which he's invented before without much effort. He expects me to be able to tell one kind of spot from another but I can't. When is a measle not a measle? When it's a chicken pox. Or a small pox. Or the first sign of radiation sickness. It might be that he has all of these at once, and I should know because I'm expected to independently evaluate each new spot as it appears and solve the itch problem as well; I could do it, but I don't think murder is an entirely appropriate response. I've decided to go away and cook peas instead in the hope that they'll make me serene and happy like they did yesterday. I may well type more rubbish tomorrow if I haven't started a life sentence in Azkabhan for making my husband mysteriously disappear in a big cloud of measles. It may be a bad habit but it has made me feel better. Productive in a non-productive kind of way. Rabbit, over. |
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