I try sitting up in bed, as an experiment, but this does not work for me at all, and I let myself flop back into the pillows, groaning theatrically.
“Tea?” enquires Lover, appearing, as if by magic, with two steaming mugs.
“I want my mum,” I whimper, pitifully.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. Nor am I finding fault with the almost indecent levels of pampering I have been subjected to over the past couple of days. Invariably however, when I feel ill, I remember, with a certain nostalgia-tinged fondness, days off school as a child. Languishing on the sofa in front of daytime television, vaguely aware of the comforting background noises of my mother clattering about in the kitchen. The compulsory ‘feeling better’ meal of boiled egg and soldiers which she always made once I was on the mend. To this day, I cannot eat a boiled egg unless I’m convalescing. It just wouldn’t be right.
Today there is actually nothing wrong with me that a flu-strength Lempsip wouldn’t fix – although a French doctor would probably say it was a very serious rhinopharyngite and write me a prescription as long as my forearm. But I reserve the right to feel sorry for myself all the same.
I sip my tea pensively, then turn to Lover, casting around for inspiration.
“I have nothing to write about on my blog. What can I write about?”
“Hmm,” he says. “Make something up… how about the fact that you came home from work last night and found me in flagrante with a rent boy? That would get a rabid response from those commenters of yours.”
I frown, wondering whether I should worry that rent boys were involved in the first idea that spontaneously popped into Lover’s mind, and at 7.00 am on a Wednesday morning. Thankfully, I remember that there is some story involving a British MP and a rent boy in the UK news at the moment, so I should probably not consider this flight of fancy a serious cause for concern.
“You realise your inbox would be deluged with hate mail? Or you’d be tracked down and lynched? My readers are a very loyal bunch. Well, apart from Tess, and Dr Analyst.”
He has to concede that I have a point. Using his real name in my comments box is possibly starting to look like less of a good idea. It may limit his future margin for manoeuvre considerably.
“Anyway, be careful what you wish for,” I continue, mischievously. “When Mr Frog asked me to flesh out his character a little, I had him dancing around my living room in women’s clothing to the Scissor Sisters.”
Oh yes. The possibilities are endless…