Norovirus!

I have a good immune system right now. 

Being spritzed each week by secondary pupils with a fresh instalment of seasonal germs has worked wonders for my resilience.  So I have listened to the news of climbing rates of flu, Covid, RSV and norovirus as if they were purely hypothetical.

Then yesterday I was felled.  Probably by norovirus.

One’s first emotion is curiosity – where did I get this from?  One begins a pointless rehearsal of one’s movements over the past three days…and reaches no conclusion.

As the condition continues on and one is still unable to rise from bed, the next feeling is anger.  What a waste of a day – I had plans, dammit.

Finally, realising that what one has is Something Nasty, the planning process starts.

I’ll have to teach on Zoom tomorrow.  What about the following day?  Surely I’ll be okay for the school trip on Thursday and the outing with my girlfriends on Friday?

To look on the bright side, it’s probably quite salutary to be properly ill once in a while (although clearly not too often).  It helps to get things like The Common Cold in proportion.  

And that’s it, really.  I can’t think of any more ways to make norovirus (or whatever I had) seem upbeat!

 Photo:  I really didn't want to include a photo of me with norovirus, so this is something interesting happening at St Albans Cathedral.

Very merry earwax

I'd planned to visit my parents in Cornwall earlier in December, but a cold meant I had to cancel. 

It felt wrong not to see them at Christmas.  They must be longing to see me.

But how could I leave my own home with Christmas approaching like an express train?  (Express sleigh?)  My teaching has continued late this year, and I'm a little behind.

But then, however much time and effort I put in, would I ever be ready for Christmas?  I never do get the house as smart as I would like. And there's always one last card that didn't get delivered, one last elusive gift that would have made somebody's Christmas perfect. 

So I bought a ticket for a flying visit to Truro anyway.  Then I picked up the phone - I could just imagine my parents' smiling faces.

'I'm coming! Arriving tomorrow afternoon!'

Long pause.

'Well, we already have a couple of engagements tomorrow afternoon - Mum's having a visit from the optician and I'm getting my ears de-waxed.  See you then, I suppose. Goodbye. '

As I said, it will be good to bring my parents joy at Christmas, even if not as much joy as the optician or the wax-removal lady.

I don't have any Christmas photos yet this year so thanks to Mary Bee for the above.

Somebody was taking care of me

I already told how my lost bag was returned to me intact. But there were two other things that same week which made me feel I was being taken care of. 

On Sunday I came down with a cold, probably caught in school. 

On Friday we were to attend the musical Hadestown. I had wanted to see this standout musical for ages so we had purchased the expensive non-refundable tickets months before. I HAD to be well in time

 In the mean time, I went to work, but when it came time to teach, I'd lost my voice. 

I found a quiet task for my pupils but was unsure whether it would work out.

In fact my lovely students were especially helpful, obeyed mimed instructions and answered each other's questions on my behalf.

I was delighted.

However. As Friday and Hadestown grew close, I'd developed an irritating cough. I have a horror of coughing during a live performance.  

'I do hope we're sitting on the end of a row so I can leave if I need to. '

'We won't,' said Nigel. 'I always try to book the middle of a row.'

But when we arrived we were actually at the very end of a row, bang next to an exit door. When a coughing fit came on I was able to withdraw discreetly and come back when done. 

All in all, it was a very much better week than I was expecting. I felt Somebody had been taking care of me.

The curse of Mr Sniffles

Our train journey to Barcelona took six hours. We had delightful window seats in the upper storey of the train and enjoyed watching the views and getting some work done.

Except for one thing. In the seat just behind Nigel was a man relentlessly blowing his nose, coughing and sneezing.

For the whole of the journey.

 I remembered far too late that I brought masks in my bag for just such an eventuality.

We couldn't see him but nicknamed him Mr Sniffles. At one point we heard him get up, probably to visit the buffet car. We both peered to see what our Nemesis looked like. He was in early middle age and wearing cream jeans ripped to reveal what appeared to be black rubber leggings underneath. On his top half, a cream sweater with a motif knitted into it in silver lurex. It was a skull and crossbones.

Miraculously Nigel did not contract the cold, but a few days later when I felt my throat grow sore, I remembered the skull and crossbones, harbinger, if not of death, at least of a nasty cold.

PS just wanted to say that this could equally have happened on a plane and wasn't a consequence of train travel. Perhaps Mr Sniffles was also an eco warrior!

Phantom Christmas

I have heard of the concept of a phantom pregnancy, where, perhaps because she longs for a baby, a woman develops the symptoms of pregnancy, yet there is no baby to be born.

This year, I had a phantom Christmas.  I made all the preparations – cards, gifts, food, sleeping arrangements.  Even though I try not to over-complicate, there’s still more than enough to do.

Pascoe, Perran and Carenza had all arrived home, much to our delight.

Then on the morning of Christmas Eve, I woke to find I could not get out of bed – I was gripped by a fever and aches and pains. Even my eyes hurt too much to read my novel.

On Christmas morning itself,  I got up for just long enough to see Pascoe, Perran and Carenza open their gifts.  I tried to be glad for everybody else’s sake that the sun was shining for the annual Christmas walk.  I got the makings of dinner out of the fridge and, led by Carenza, the rest of the family cooked and ate them.

By Boxing Day Nigel had the flu too. 

Gradually, over the next couple of days, we began to feel more ourselves again and had some good moments with our lovely children.  However, by Sunday lunch time, they were all gone, back to work, or celebrations with friends. 

Now there is bedding to wash and leftovers to use up, evidence that the festival took place, but I kind of have this weird feeling that I’m short by one Christmas.

Perhaps I’m due two next year!

The Holly and the Ivy and the Echinacea

It’s dark and cold and we middle-aged women are run ragged by gift-buying, gift-wrapping, card-sending, and the purchase and preparation of food – while feeling guilty that we are not enjoying Christmas more.

Opportunist viruses patrol, eager to invade. 

As a teacher I can take my pick of virulent illnesses.  They are handed to me on exercise books, they await me on doorhandles.  Sometimes, they are sneezed right in my face.

So my favourite seasonal plant is not the holly, not the ivy, not the Christmas rose nor poinsettia.  It is a plant which blooms not in December, but in summer - echinacea.

It is extract of echinacea which boosts my immune system and wards off the seasonal colds.

Pascoe informs me this is stuff and nonsense.

But I am clinging to my beliefs.

Especially as Christmas is here and I don’t have a cold yet this year.

Obviously it meant that at Evensong at the Cathedral, I was unable to participate fully in “the annual festival of coughing”.

It also means that the impressive stocks of lemsip and cough sweets that I laid down are redundant.

Worst of all, it means I have to find a new excuse for the shortcomings of Christmas dinner.

But, otherwise, it’s a great improvement. 

So next year I shall be sending Christmas cards with an echinacea motif, weaving an echinacea door wreath and decking an echinacea Christmas tree.

Happy Christmas.