I am ill. I have a temperature, a very sore throat and I ache everywhere, mainly in what feels like my kidneys but I can’t be sure. I hate being ill and am not a good patient. I am short-tempered, grumpy and feel terribly sorry for myself. To make matters worse the cat jumped on me at 5am so instead of sleeping through until maybe 8, I have to suffer another three hours of this ghastly virus.
I had an email from a retired Brigadier about the column in Sunday’s Sunday Times. It cheered me up enormously. I told the Brigadier (retired) that he had made me laugh on an otherwise pretty miserable day. I told him I was going to toast him with a glass of rose and hope that banished the illness. This was his response:
Vin Rosé. Non. My second in command Col Aylmer Bulstrode caught the virus whilst we were attending to the drains in Aden. The cure is to take to your bed, preferably a four poster. Place a top hat or something similar on the footpost, lie down clutching an opened bottle of whisky and imbibe regularly until you appear to see two hats. Then slumber, when you awake the virus will be gone and you merely have to cope with a monstrous hang over.
Fortuitously I have a four-poster bed. Now I just need to find a hat and some whisky. I may be some time…..
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007