Country life
Sick as a dog
Leanda de Lisle
I spent lunch looking mournfully up at my hostess, with my limp hair framing my face and slowly filled my mouth with Sevru- ga while she chatted away brightly. By the time we had finished I had cheered up con- siderably. However, I then had to get home and an hour and 20 minutes of sitting on the floor of a train proved enough to dispel the feel good factor. 'This is what life's really about', I thought. Which reminds me. My next lunch invitation is at our local hotel. I foolishly mentioned somewhere that the food in this hotel is so bad that the guests rioted over Christmas and the man- ager had to lock himself in his office. So the new manager now wants to show me how things have improved.
I can't believe I am going to be very impressed. In this part of the world cook- ing still seems to be based on the ration book. But if this new manager is going to try to impress me I won't even be able to enjoy being mean about their horrid food again. Not that be going for a while. By the end of my train journey I was aware that I was going down with full-blown flu. The first time I've had it for 15 years. On the last occasion I spent three days in bed, looking sweaty and romantic. But having flu isn't what it used to be. This time I felt worse every day for a week and still had to get up to perform my duties as a wife and mother.
The last straw came when I asked my husband for a comforting hug. He looked at me in absolute horror, 'Keep away!' he shouted and crossed his arms in front of his face. 'What's wrong, darling?' I asked, 'Has my nose dropped off?'. 'You smell', he informed me, 'You smell like an old dog.' The terrible thing is he was right. I didn't just feel like a dying dog, I smelt like one too. I rang the surgery and asked if a doc- tor could come out to see me. I knew they wouldn't be keen to leave the shelter of their nice cosy health centre, but I explained that I seemed to have a particu- larly nasty strain of flu and that if I came in several old ladies might catch it and die. They weren't impressed. So, after another couple of days of misery, I finally dragged myself off to see my doctor.
Needless to say I had forgotten to put on a bra and had to be examined stripped to the waist. Tap! Tap! the doctor went on my back. 'Any minute now my bosoms are going to hit the floor', I thought to myself. But then he said the magic word — pneu- monia. I must say I was delighted. It is one thing feeling ill for no good reason — and I was beginning to worry that I might have some low-down urban complaint like ME, but pneumonia! It seemed so fatal. I think I've got it only in one lung, but it's abso- lutely transformed my week. Peter has stopped telling me I smell and has started to cook delicious little dinners for me. Snowdrops that have so far escaped the attention of the thieves have been cut and placed by my bed. At last I feel spring in the air.
Johnny here will show you the ropes.'
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