A Poorly Annie.
Well, where to begin. Firstly just to catch up; Christmas went well. The family came to visit with arms full of gifts and bodies full of bugs. Yes, you read that right – BUGS! Needless to say, after a day or two back at work, I succumbed to the pigin’ flu – monia. Pour D.H had to run the show. I couldn’t get out of bed for three days, and ended up living on lovingly prepared beans on toast. Under normal circumstances, beans on toast would not appear on my menu, far too ‘carbi’ for my delicate constitution. But when your nurse is at the complete opposite end of the scale to Jamie Oliver when it comes to cooking, and getting out of bed to cook for oneself is a definite no – no, beans on toast does the trick.
Mother and Mildred Small called round to find out if I would give them both a lift to the train station. D.H had just popped out (I imagined to buy some more tins of beans), so they let themselves in.
“Annie, are you up there dear?” mother called.
She must have called out a few times, because by the time I was awake her tone was quite exasperated. She bounced into my room, closely followed as usual by Mildred Small.
“Annie!…” her voice trailed away, “what are you doing in bed dear, are you ill?”
Unable to talk due to a very sore throat, I just looked blurry eyed over the bed covers at them. It took them a moment or two to take in the scene, but once they had, they simultaneously pulled their scarves up around their noses.
“Annie darling, you look dreadful. Why didn’t you call and let me know you were ill, and where is that husband of yours? He should be here looking after you.”
“Plus, might I add,” an irate Mildred Small was saying to mother, “he should be here stopping people from coming into contact with her. You can almost feel the illness in this room. If I’m sick on my holiday, someone will be very sorry!”
“How compassionate of you Mildred!” mother said glaring at her, whilst holding her scarf tightly to her nose and taking a step further away from the bed.
D.H arrived home from his shopping trip, just in the knick of time.
“Annie love, I’m home. Can I get you anything?” he called up.
Mother looked over at me, and mumbled something completely inaudible into her scarf, then left the room, followed closely by her sidekick, Mildred Small.
I wafted back to sleep listening to their muffled voices in the hallway downstairs. Only to be brought back from my slumber by the sound of D.H’s footsteps on the staircase, and the smell of burnt toast in the air.
“I’ve decided to jazz up your supper Annie, you must be sick of beans on toast.”
I sat up expectantly to see D.H grinning like a Cheshire Cat, very pleased with himself and a plate of beans on toast, topped with cheese in his hand. He presented it to me like it was a culinary delight. And to be honest with you, it was; not because of the cheese or the beans or even the burnt toast, but because I could taste the love that had gone into it.