Poor Relations: Himself's Near Death

Sure, Himself is down with the influenza.

Is that the way?

'Tis. He's been laying in bed half the week, sick as you like.

Ah, the creature!

Oh, now, don't be taking his part now, girl. Likely as not, it's mostly put on.

Oh, no.

See, now, he's got the whole lot of ya bamboozled. Sure, he's a great one for puttin it on, you know. There's the dishes waitin to be washed, and next thing he's got his feet up and cold cloth on his pate, swearing he's been struck with a fever. 'B'god' he says, 'this is it. I'm certain I'll die tonight. Run, now, and get the priest.'

And, I says, 'I'll not until you've got those plates scrubbed and put up.'

But, did he have a temperature?

Well, a course he did -- sure, we all do, don't we. His was a hundred three -- sure, just a few ticks above me own. And, him a man -- a sweaty and unruly man, at that -- sure, he's bound to be hotter.

But, no sooner had I taken the blessed termometer from his gob, he was up and sayin, 'Faith,' he says, 'Watch now, the merc'ry's ready to burst out an spill out on the floor an roll up in little balls. God save us.' With that, he fell back in the chair, as pale an brittle as me own mother's bone china.

But, sure, he must've been feverish?

Well, I don't know about that. Next thing he said he was chilled to the marrow, shakin and shiverin like a hindoo, and I says, 'Well, which is it? Hot or cold? Make up your mind. And, don't tink that first ting tomorrow, you won't be be up the roof tendin the hole ye made on Shrove Tuesday.' But, sure enough, that next mornin, I couldn't rouse him for nothin. So, I left him be.

Ah, the poor ting.

Not a bit of it. I'll have him up now scrubbing the floor in no time, and he'll be none the worse for it. I'm just after order'ing up his medications on the online apothecary.

Wonders never cease.

'Tis grand.

And, sure, he's still a fine figure of a man.

He is, at that.

Comments

[Gone Away]

Ah, she's a hard taskmaster, always with another job for the poor man.

Almost as hard as this blogging business that takes no account of sickness or rest but says, "Get up, y' lazy thing. 'Tis bloggin' t' be done!"

[Ned]

While the sick man has life, there is hope.

Be sure that it is not you that is mortal, but only your body. For that man whom your outward form reveals is not yourself; the spirit is the true self, not that physical figure which can be pointed out by your finger.

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Let us hope that this sickness, when defeated, will yet leave us a remainder of the man.

[Remainderman]

We are embarrassed by the wealth and versatility of our visitors:
an Englishman who is an Irishman; a ned who is a poet and philosopher.

Grateful we remain (thus the name).

[Gone Away]

You are quite right Remainderman, both in regard to Ned and myself, for she is a poet of the highest calibre and I am from Coventry. My roots go deep into the past in the English Midlands, all of my ancestors originating from within twenty miles of that city, so I am as English as they come. But the Irish came in their droves to Coventry in the first half of the 20th Century, for it was the Detroit of Britain and there was work to be done. I have worked alongside many an Irishman and enjoyed their friendship as well as their carefree philosophy and gentle, but oh, so witty, humor.

[Harry]

See, I get so jealous of ya'll, being raised mostly around Mexicans. None of ya prolly don't care much for hot sause, do yas?

[Ned]

Harry, I love Mexican food and yearn for a nice picante sauce. None of this mild stuff for me. Luckily we have you to add spice to things.

[Gone Away]

In a survey conducted a few years ago, it was found that fish and chips was no longer the most popular take-out meal in Britain. That position is now held by the Indian curry, a state of affairs that I heartily approve of. My father having lived in India for many years before and during WWII, I appreciate a good curry and, contrary to the expectations of many, I like 'em hot enough to roast a Mexican.

[Hannah]

I have never tasted curry. Nachos, however, are on the owl-approved snacking list.

[Remainderman]

That does explain Harry's spice and bite.

[Ned]

Harry bites? Call Cesar Millan.

[Harry]

ARF! (this dog sits, but he don't beg)