Amateurish Articulation from the Apartment of Awful Afflictions

It's official: we three Locketts are allergic to Switzerland.

I was going to title this blog, 'Hope fades from the House of Ill Health' but Sapphire pointed out that we live in a rented apartment, not anything near as grand or large or solid as a house.

Ohhhhh, that's right, thanks for reminding me dear heart. For a mere four seconds I forgot that we were the ONLY family at her school who don't own a ski chalet, spend their summers in Florida or have handbags equalling Love Chunks' full monthly wage....

Speaking of whom, it's all his fault. Last Monday he started sniffing and ahem-ing a bit too often in front of the telly and by Wednesday was too achey, miserable and swollen about the head to go into work. The discernible heat emanating off him like an open grill and red puffy neck said it all - no World Meteorological Day participation for him. My plate of Anzac biscuits were left on the table, forlorn and forgotten. His Canadian, Chinese, Serbian and Pommy workmates would just have to wait until next year to sample those ground-breaking taste sensations.

Friday saw no improvement, except in the medicinal transportation arrangements from room to room. I gave him a plastic shopping bag (a rarity in these parts) and told him to use that as his wet tissue receptacle instead of leaving a pestilential trail of damp white splodges on the bedside table, sofa, kitchen bench and floor rugs. Shaking with fever on the sofa or constantly feeling like he was about to throw up surprisingly didn't add any drama or interest to the utter boredom and frustration of being stuck at home, feeling like pallid pigeon poo.

Dinner party plans scheduled for Saturday were duly cancelled. After all, who wants to see the chef coughing up a tonsil all over the roast pork? Worse still, who wants to see me, Front of House Who Can't Cook, try to make an entire meal that from scratch that is:

a) edible
b) socially acceptable to serve to non-members of the family; and
c) not burned, cold or collapsed due to my tendency to chat/show off/laugh/drink and forget about how magical it is when delicious food is served due to the hard work of my husband and not my hilarious anecdotes.

Never mind, it was Imi's 13th birthday on the Sunday and Sapphire and I planned to leave LC a quiet house to rest in as we joined her family for the Versoix Chocolate festival and a fondue lunch follow up.

Alas, no.

My old foe Mr Migraine knocked - no, clawed a bloody hole through my head with a post hole digger - insisting he be let in for his regular visit. Bugger; I'd forgotten all about our monthly appointment.

The marital bed, on a Saturday evening, is normally a pretty joyous place to be, but not this night. Poor Love Chunks' hacking cough cut through my pounding, protesting skull and it was a struggle to feel pity for what could only be his infected throat being shredded every time his lungs heaved and barked, and feeling as though Mr Migraine was laughing with glee at the freebie bonus of an unintentionally loud, phlegm-filled lover working alongside him.  No curtains and big glass windows provided the ideal environment for lasting and lengthy quadrophonic sound - Mr Migraine's job was doing itself!

So no chocolate, fondue, birthday cake, sunshine or socialising.

Sapphire wasn't too bothered because LC's Lurgy had finally caught her. Sneezing, wheezing and sighing could be heard from her room all night and when Mr Migraine finally decided to torture someone else, I creaked out of bed to see her pale face for a moment before it dashed into the toilet. Ah yes, bring it on - a big bout of flu with some vague gastro nausea thrown in: might as well get all orifices in on the action.....

Today LC is still home, struggling to clear his lungs and walk a step or two without doubling over to cough. The doctor has x-rayed his chest and with relief has said, "Thank god, it's just influenza but you're too ill to go to work for the rest of the week and maybe next," and Sapphire is lying in the bath resting after several days of nose blowing, painful joints and difficulty hearing through her puffy head.

Today too, LC's Lurgy finally got me in its evil, hate-filled headlock. Serves me right for chatting so smugly with Allan-and-Eva-from-Canada as they walked to the UN at the same time Milly and I headed to the park for squirrel spotting yesterday morning. "It must be all that walking you do," Eva beamed in approval.

Nope. My throat is pulsating to a different beat than my heart; my knees and back feel as though they're being boiled in water and Mr Migraine might have left some of his larger equipment to inflate inside my ear canal.

We'll all survive but god knows what the hell lessons we'll learn from it.