Man Flu

It all started as a normal day, it had all been pretty uneventful as far as Thursdays go. I only had to remove one crayon from Mate's nose, which was an improvement to the norm. I had picked Katy up from school, and had decided to sneak in some twitter time whilst the kids watched Scooby Doo. Not the old one that we used to love and enjoy, this new fangled abomination bears as much resemblance to our version as an acorn does to an oak tree.

Anyway, all was well in Casa Gooner until I started feeling a bit cold. I even remember tweeting "Have had to put a hoody on as I'm so cold. May go and mug a teenager and teach them some irony." That tweet marked the beginning of 5 days of sheer torture. At points in that period I half expected the CIA to come knocking, asking me to threaten to breathe on some detainees in Guantanamo Bay. It would have been far more effective than water boarding, although I'm sure The Hague would have taken issue with it.

Before an hour had passed I was laying on the sofa, shivering and wishing I still lived at home so my Mum could look after me. The Wife got home eventually, took one look at me and with a worried voice said "Did you manage to prepare dinner before you got ill?" I didn't have the strength to throw anything at her so I aimed some toxic breath her way. Luckily the family was spared the prospect of Chicken a la Burnt as I had already made something.

As the night progressed I went downhill rapidly. My body was freezing and yet I was sweating from everywhere, even my fingernails. I was perspiring so much, it was like the collective sweat of a weight watchers meeting held in a cake shop. I made myself a Lemsip (couldn't trust wife not to burn it) opened up the sofa-bed, snuggled under the duvet and drifted in and out of a sleep-like state.

Of course being ill and laying down meant I had to relinquish ownership of the remote control. I'm not sure in what world making an ill bloke endure a double episode of Ugly Betty is considered a helpful thing, but it sure isn't the one I inhabit. I'm almost certain that listening to her nasally whiny voice for two hours is what caused the four day headache that followed. I also had a very restless feverish night, full of dreams where I had to write a daily blog for a failing fashion magazine. Damn you Ugly Betty.

I woke up the next day feeling even worse, something I had not thought possible the night before. My Wife was unwilling unable to take the day off work, so I was forced to endure the school run. The school caretaker took one look at me, and covered his face with a dubious looking handkerchief. I half expected him to get his bell out and start tolling it to the shout of UNCLEAN, UNCLEAN. I managed to dump Katy and escape from the barrage of suggestions from the well intentioned, but know-it-all Mothers. Not one of them suggested I curl up and die, but that was exactly what I was going home to do.

Upon returning home I garnered the last of my strength to grab a load of Mate quietening treats, and my Indiana Jones DVD box set. I had decided that Mate should become an archaeologist and today was as good a day as any for him to start swotting up on the subject. Grabbing the duvet and another Lemsip, we retired to the sofa and started to study. I must have fallen asleep during the film for I woke to a loud BANG and the mother of all headaches. BANG. There it went again, I looked around for the source of the noise. BANG. Oh my God I thought my head was going to explode, please let it stop. I spotted Mate picking up a feather and dropping it, BANG. I coughed and the noise sounded like a tantrum of teenagers playing drums in my head.

I dragged myself to the kitchen to take some of my migraine tablets. When I swallowed them it felt like I was swallowing barbed wire. I poured a cold glass of water to help soothe my throat and even that was painful. How in the name of all that's unholy, can water feel spiky? I struggled back to the sofa, threw Mate an apple, and covered my head with a pillow. I may have cried, I really can't remember, if I didn't then I definitely deserved a Mummy's bravery reward.

The wife rang late in the afternoon to enquire after my health and to remind me she was meant to be going out that night. I lied and told her I was starting to improve, and that she should go out. The thought of her in charge of the TV remote for another night was too much to bear. The kids got fed junk food that evening. There were a few complaints about the frozen peas, but I passed them off as mini vegetable ice lollies. I packed them off to bed without a bath, I couldn't smell anything anyway, and then I settled into the sofa bed for the night.

At around 9.30pm I had a brainwave, and decided that gargling with wine may help the pain in my throat. It didn't, but by the time the bottle was finished I didn't much care anyway. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, caught between sleep and pain. The wife eventually returned at 3am full of remorse and Pinot Grigio. I endured her apologies for as long as I could, which was 10 minutes, before I sent her and her KFC upstairs.

Revenge was mine the next morning when the kids woke up. I reminded her hung-over self of my terrible illness, and sent her downstairs to deal with the kids. Saturday for me was spent in bed with the door closed, and a towel at the foot of it for sound proofing purposes. I could vaguely hear the screaming and shouting, I could also hear the kids, and for the first time in three days I smiled.

Saturday morphed into Sunday and everybody seemed to survive the weekend. The kids now looked like Augustus Gloop and the treat cupboard was empty, but what the hell, the house was still in one piece. Monday came around, and thankfully most of the symptoms started to disappear. I emerged from the dark side lighter (whoop whoop), and with the knowledge that nothing could possibly be worse that what I had just endured.

Three days later I discovered something worse than Man Flu, Wife Flu.

Just a Snip

I saw a picture today on the blog of another Dad I follow, that made me laugh; wince; smile ruefully and then cross my legs, all in the space of seconds. It is a rare thing that can encapsulate all of these emotions at one time, but this did.



It is a real life merit badge for those of us that have 'taken one for the team', and ensured that we can no longer over-populate this ever shrinking planet of ours. Don’t get me wrong, population density of the planet was not the reason for this drastic decision. Over-population of our house, however, was a major factor. Our house is a 3 bed semi-detached Victorian cottage, quaint, previously tranquil, and a bit kooky. I loved this place from the first time we saw it 7, 8 or 9 years ago.

Incidentally have you noticed that the older you get, the less sure about dates you are. I must have foreseen this coming, as I had our wedding date engraved on the inside of my wedding ring. Anytime I am unsure, I just slip it off, take a sneaky peek, and another night on the couch is avoided. Anyway I digress (another thing that seems to be happening more and more), the house always seemed the right size until No3, Mate, turned up.

At the moment Dawn has her own room at the end of the hall. Initially this was to spare her all the tears and tantrums from No2 baby Katy, but since she turned 15 and has discovered boys, it is to spare us from all her tears and tantrums. Katy and Mate share the bedroom next to ours, which has resulted in a fair set of adventures in itself, and a subject worthy of its own blog. Our room is just one thin wall away, so no more TV in bed, well actually no more anything in bed. Any declaration of our love happens downstairs, lest we wake the little buggers up.

Don’t be too impressed by our al dente approach to matrimonials, the loudest thing is normally me falling over trying to get my trousers off before removing my trainers. Foreplay is taking my socks off first, or whispering sweet nothings like “they must be asleep by now”, or “Ok, whose turn is it?” Another plus point of being downstairs is that you are only 4 steps from the fridge for the post-match beer (and a glass of wine for the laydee), but on the downside we have laminate floors, so it can be a bit tough on the old knees.

So the decision was made, we didn’t want to move, so I was packed off to be neutered. Scant regard was given to my feelings on this matter, once her mind is made up there is never any turning back (unless she has forgotten her mobile, then we always have to turn back). So callous and cavalier was her treatment of me, that I was actually grateful that she has not made an appointment with a Vet for the procedure. I could just imagine me in a room of tight lipped, steadfast women holding onto leash’s, with their husbands on the other end, lolling on the floor with hound-dog expressions.

So off I went to the pre-procedure appointment, where they sit you down and try to talk you out of it and explain how serious it is. I mean honestly, you are going to grab hold of my Crown Jewels, and then attack them with either a sharp knife or some laser-burny-thingy, and you feel the need to tell me it’s serious - no shit Sherlock. I had come prepared with a video clip on my phone of the kids hitting each other with plastic golf clubs from a BBQ brawl to convince him. When he still looked dubious, I explained that my Wife was from Irish-Catholic stock, and that sealed the deal.

I had to return in 2 weeks, with someone to drive me home, and 2 pairs of clean and tight fitted boxer shorts. That was the one thing that stood out, 2 pairs of pants, why? Was there going to be so much blood that the second pair would be needed to soak it all up, lest the next victim (I mean patient) would be scared off? I just could not figure it out.

V-day arrived, 6th January to be precise, and by God it was cold that winter. Now I started to panic. As all men know the cold is never kind to us, and here I was about to get my tackle out for an audience, and it was bloody freezing. I didn't know what to do for the best . Do I walk into the room all cold and diminished, or do I involve myself in a bit of self-manipulation just before hand (boom boom) just to give a good showing? What if I went too far though, would it be sending the wrong signals to the Doctor? I must have been insane to be worrying about such an inconsequential thing, but it must have been self-denial’s way of keeping me off the real issue of becoming a semi-eunuch. I solved the dilemma by making sure the heating in the car was on full blast all the way there. That just meant that I looked really red cheeked and embarrassed by the time I got there, but that seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

I’m not sure I can bring myself to describe the operation (which you are awake for) in any detail. I just don’t think it would be fair to all those who are going to follow in my pantsteps, but needless to say it is not something I would ever like to repeat. There was a lot of fumbling and tugging, but without the usual outcome, in fact the exact opposite.

The Wife drove me home, and to her credit she did well to hide the “No balls now, we’ll just see who’s boss” look. I was told I had to stay in bed for two days, wearing the two pairs of pants, and not drive or lift anything. I managed to substitute upstairs for downstairs (no X-Box or DVD upstairs), and turn two days into four. The only plus point, was being able to shout for anything I needed. Every time I asked for a beer, my wife would be all “are you sure that is wise?” to which I would reply “I became a gelding so you could stay in this house, the least I deserve is a beer!”

It was a tender couple of weeks to say the least, with me walking like John Wayne behind a smirking Wife every time we went to Tesco’s. Another thing they had warned me about was that there might be some blood left in the tubes. A piece of information I had stored in the furthest reaches of my mind, until when following the Doctors orders, and emptying said tubes, everything had turned a day-glo pink! A memory, I am sure, that will haunt me till my grave.

I recovered eventually, and I don’t care what any Doctor tells you, it does feel a bit different now, not as full up I guess. So I guess the moral of this story is, buy a big house from the off, as you never know what life is going to throw at you, or snip off you!

I must thank Russ, who posted the badge on the blog site he runs with his mate Jasper, “Dad’s who mock the world”. You can find it at http://dadswhomocktheworld.blogspot.com/ well worth a read. You can also see more badges at http://www.worth1000.com/emailthis.asp?entry=296335 Credit where credits due as my Dad always says.