“What do you mean, ‘under the weather’? How bad is it?” gasped the mother-in-law.
“In the ‘lying on the sofa watching telly’ kind of way. Nothing serious, just a slight feverwinters coming, after all.”
“Winter? It’s not just winter! It’s that job of yoursyou bring home all sorts from that till! How many times have I told you to find something else?”
Emma was fast asleep when suddenly*BANG!*the front door flew open. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the clock. Eight in the morning?
“Oliver, love, is that you?” she called, straining to hear movement in the flat.
No answer. Just the creak of the bathroom door opening… then silence.
Emma flung on her dressing gown and dashed barefoot to the bathroom.
She yanked the door openand froze.
There stood Oliver, stretching his lips and admiring his own tongue in the mirror.
“Emma, is it true that when youre poorly, your tongue goes white?” he asked gravely.
“Are you poorly?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.
“Think so,” he sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Need a thermometer. Where is it? I should lie down. They even sent me home from work. Might need to call the GP.”
Emma dug out the thermometer. Sure enough37.2°C. Winter had arrived, and so had Olivers man flu. The GP popped by an hour later, signed him off sick.
Emma rang her mum.
“Could you pick up little Alfie from nursery? Olivers poorlydont want him bringing germs home.”
Her mum was thrilledshe doted on her grandson, living alone as she did, and Alfie was her little ray of sunshine.
“Whats wrong with Oliver? Nothing serious?”
“Nah, just a sniffle. GP came, gave him a sick note, some medshell survive.”
“And how are *you*?” her mum fretted.
“Im fine! Got the late shift todayIll ask the mother-in-law to check on him tonight. Shops always packed in the evenings, wont have time to call. Thanks, Mum, youre a star.”
Right thenchicken soup. Needed to thaw some drumsticks, pop to the shop for carrots and potatoes.
At the chemist, she grabbed everything on the list. By lunch, she nudged Oliver awake.
“Oliver, up you getsoups ready.” She shook his shoulder.
He groaned, sitting up.
“Ugh, feel queasy. Cant I have it in bed? Kitchens miles away.”
“That bad? Fine, Ill bring it. Then well check your temp again…”
Soup devoured, thermometer still at 37.2°C. Emma handed him paracetamol. He rolled over, face to the wall, and was snoring in seconds. *Thank goodness.*
Couldnt afford to catch this herselfOliver got full sick pay, but her shop job? Not a chance. And with bills to pay, she *had* to stay well. She rang the mother-in-law.
“Margaret, Olivers poorly. If you could swing by tonight? Just to check on him.”
“*Poorly?* How bad is he?” Margaret gasped.
“Mostly horizontal. Tiny fever, nothing dramatic. Just winter, innit?”
“Winter? Pfft! Its that till job of yoursdragging germs home! How many times must I say*find a new job*!”
“Margaret, Im *not* ill! You *know* Oliver was always poorly as a kid. First frost hits, and bamhes down. Not my fault!”
Before Margaret could launch into her usual dramatics, Emma hung up. No doubt shed be there in an hour, fussing like hed caught the plague. Fine. At least shed watch himEmma needed to get ready for work.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived, arms full of herbal teas and tinctures. Clucking like a hen, she swapped Olivers damp T-shirt.
“Lying here in *sweat*, no wonder hes worse! How could you miss this?”
“Margaret, he was *asleep*what was I meant to do?”
Emma left for work. A few hours in, she felt woozy. *Oh nonot me too.* But she couldnt show it. Had to tough out the shift. That evening, her temperature was *higher* than Olivers. She wanted to moan to himbut he was too busy staring at his tongue in the mirror.
“Bit shivery. Mum made me honey-lemon teahelped a bit, but now I feel rough again. What should I take?”
“Er dunno. Feel a bit rubbish myself.”
“Just take something,” Oliver said, still studying his reflection. “Still white. Fascinating.”
Right. No complaining. Pop pills, power through. Bills wouldnt pay themselves.
All week, Oliver wallowed in his suffering, convinced he was *the* most tragic man aliveeven when the thermometer read a perfect 37°C, hed sigh like hed fought off typhoid.
Margaret became a permanent fixture, arriving with more “miracle” remedies. Emma avoided her, knowing she looked as rough as she felt.
Oliver? Oblivious. Napping, scrolling, watching telly. By day four, Emmas fever broke.
The weakness lingered, but she pushed through. Oliver? Demanded *everything*bedside meals, water refills, constant temperature checks.
Margaret clucked, “He was *always* poorly as a boy!” But in five years of marriage, this was his *first* coldand somehow, it was *unbearable*.
Every sniffle was a saga, every ache a tragedy.
The next week, he was “recovered.” Alfie came home. Back to work tomorrow.
Over tea that evening, Oliver sighed dramatically.
“Was *so* much easier as a kid. What Ive been throughyouve *no* idea.”
“Really? Was it *that* bad?”
“Ha! Easy for *you* to say, all healthy and smug.”
“I *wasnt* healthy. Had it tooyou just didnt notice.”
Oliver squinted, then smirked. “Joking, right? Anywaybedtime!”
Emma sighed. He *still* hadnt noticed.
Ah well.
Like the old joke goesa woman whos given birth can *sort of* understand what a man goes through with a 37°C fever
