**Tuesday, 15th November**
What do you mean, poorly? How bad is he? gasped my mother-in-law.
Just resting. Nothing serious, a slight temperaturewinters setting in, after all.
Winter? Pah! Its that job of yoursyou bring heaven knows what back from that till of yours! How many times must I say it? Find another job!
Emma had been asleep when a loud bang startled herthe front door swung open! She rubbed her eyes and squinted at the clockonly eight in the morning!
Oliver, love, is that you? she called, listening for movement in the flat.
No answer. Just the creak of the bathroom door and then silence.
Emma threw on her dressing gown and dashed barefoot to the bathroom. She flung the door openand froze.
There stood Oliver, stretching his lips wide, admiring his tongue in the mirror.
Emma, is it true your tongue goes white when youre ill? he asked.
Are you poorly? she mumbled, still half-asleep.
Think so, he replied, touching his forehead with concern. Need the thermometer. Where is it? Might lie down. Even got sent home from work. Probably should call the doctor.
Emma fetched it. Sure enough37.2°C. Winter had arrived, and Oliver was down with it. The GP came within the hour, signed him off work.
She rang her mum. Could you pick up little Alfie from nursery? Olivers illcant risk bringing it home.
Her mum was thrilledshe doted on her grandson, living alone as she did. Alfie was her joy.
Whats wrong with Oliver? Anything serious?
No, just a bug. GPs been, gave him a sick note, some meds. Hell rest it off.
And how are *you* feeling? her mum pressed.
Fine! Working the late shift. Asked the mother-in-law to check on him tonight. Shops packed eveningswont have time to ring. And so it goes all week. Right, thanks, Mumsorted.
Sowhat next? A light chicken soup, which meant nipping to the shops (pharmacy first). Dug out frozen drumsticks, needed carrots and potatoes.
At the chemists, she grabbed the essentials. Come lunch, she shook Oliver awake.
Up you get, love. Soups ready.
Oliver groaned, sitting up. Feel queasy. Bring it here? Cant face the kitchen.
That bad? Alright, then. She brought it over. Check your temp after.
He ate, checkedstill 37.2°. Emma doled out pills. Oliver rolled toward the wall and dozed off. Good. Now, she couldnt catch thisOliver got full sick pay, but at the shop? Tight. And with the mortgage no room for her to falter.
She rang her mother-in-law. Margaret, Olivers poorly. Could you pop in tonight?
*Poorly*? How bad? Margaret gasped.
Asleep. Mild fever, thats all. Just winter.
Winter? Ha! Its that till of yoursdragging germs home! How many times must I sayget another job!
Margaret, *Im* not ill! You said yourself Oliver was sickly as a boy. Frosts setting inhardly my fault.
Emma cut her off before Margaret could spin drama. No doubt shed descend within the hour. Finelet her fuss. Emma had a shift to prep for.
Sure enough, Margaret arrived, arms laden with herbal remedies. Clucked like a hen, swapping Olivers damp shirt.
Left him sweatingno wonder hes worse! How could you miss that?
Margaret, he was *asleep*. What was I meant to do?
Emma left for work. By afternoon, weariness hit. Oh no*she* was coming down with it. But no choicehad to finish the shift. That evening, her temp read higher than Olivers. Ached to complain, but he was too busy studying his tongue in the mirror.
Chills and aches. Mum made raspberry teahelped a bit, but its back. What should I take?
Dunno. Feel rough myself.
Well, take something then, Oliver muttered, still eyeing his reflection. Still white. Blimey.
Right. No falling ill. And no point moaningMum would panic-call, Margaret would blame her, and Oliver? Oblivious.
Decision made: swallow pills, work through it. The mortgage wouldnt pay itself.
All week, Oliver wallowed, playing the martyreven at 37°C, hed sigh, *Dreadful*. Margaret hovered with tinctures. Emma avoided her, looking as rough as she felt.
Oliver noticed nothingdozing between telly and phone. Home late, Emma checked her temp. Only by day four did it settle.
Shed powered through, weak but managing. Oliver? Demanded bed servicemeals brought, temp taken, drinks fetched.
Margaret claimed hed been sickly as a boy, but in five years of marriage, this was his first coldand *insufferable* he made it. A sniffle became a saga, groaning like a Victorian invalid.
Next week, he was cleared. Alfie came home. Back to work tomorrow.
Over tea that evening, Oliver sighed. Remember being poorly as a kid? Easy then. This? *Brutal*. Youve no idea.
Really? Was it *that* bad?
Easy for you to sayfit as a fiddle!
*I* had it too. You just didnt notice.
Oliver frowned, then smirked, as if catching her out. Joking, arent you? Rightbed.
Emma sighed. Hed *really* not noticed.
Ah, well. Like the old joke: a woman whos given birth can *almost* fathom what a man endures at 37 degrees
**Lesson**: Men turn flu into opera. Women? We just get on with it.
