Sick notes

A diary of a week and a half of the dreaded lurgy

It begins with a tickle on Saturday. The tickle turns into a dry throat and a cough. My head is full of gunk. This is the week that everything goes back to normal, but I miss our first choir rehearsal of 2026. The what day is it? feeling stretches into the new year. To confuse me further, the bin collections are still a day later than usual, and I put the bin bags out on the wrong day.

I’m quite used to being incapacitated, having lived with chronic illness for more than a quarter of a century. I’ve learned not to give in to self-pity for long. Besides, a couple of close friends and family are going through major health crises, so who am I to complain about a virus?

Monday

Andy arrives to complete the work on Bob’s shed, as distinct from my writing shed. Bob’s shed is Trigger’s broom in shed form. Over the years, it’s had new cladding on two sides, a new door, and a roof repair. I was in favour of demolition when we first moved in nine years ago, but Bob felt it was worth saving. Andy agrees with Bob that it’s still worth renovating. Andy has rebuilt the outer wall, above a row of garages several feet below, and has returned to clad the outside and to repair the roof. The roof, however, is in a bad state, so he replaces it entirely. He works in freezing temperatures, and with Bob out for the morning, it falls to me to keep Andy topped up with good coffee. Andy deserves good coffee. Andy is a gem, and must be kept happy.

I decide not to feel sorry for myself. I take down some writing files to read through and cull. The job takes me several days, and as I read through some of my old work, I’m quite pleased with what I’ve written. But it exists on my MacBook and online, so the printouts go for recycling. I resolve to cut down on printing things out.

I allow myself some morning telly. I’m working my way through The Good Wife on Paramount+. I watched it all when it first aired on TV, but have forgotten much of it. It’s so far from my own life, it’s a kind of escapism. The law firm Lockhart Gardner has just got itself out of bankruptcy, and all the lawyers are celebrating with champagne. Perhaps if they didn’t crack open the champagne quite so often, they wouldn’t have got into financial trouble in the first place.

Tuesday

Bob heads off to lead his choir. I ‘rest’ by cleaning the doors of the kitchen cupboards. Bob is having a 70th birthday party at the weekend, and though the party is being held elsewhere, I feel the need for a clean kitchen.

I haven’t been able to choose a card in person, or to pick up the train tickets for my surprise birthday present, so I resort to Moonpig, and print out the confirmations of the train tickets, the accommodation, and the tickets to see The Unthanks with the Royal Northern Sinfonia in Manchester at the end of January. I label each of the printouts in order so that he will open the train confirmation first, then the accommodation details and then the concert tickets.

Wednesday
Bob is 70! I am keeping my distance so as not to give him my lurgy before his party. I present the envelope with the printouts marked ‘Mission M U’ stages 1, 2 and 3. M for Manchester, U for Unthanks. He goes straight to stage 3, so I shout at him. He’s spoiling the surprise. He now reads them in the right order. He’s delighted (not with my shouting, but with his present).

My presence at the party on Saturday is looking doubtful. Bob is organising the stage set-up for an open mic and the food is bring and share. We’ve already shopped for cutlery plates, food, etc. Fortunately, some of the choir members have offered to set up the food tables. I can let go of my organising worries. If I’m well enough, I can just turn up for an hour or so. Feel bad about being ill on Bob’s actual birthday. I send him out to get some posh Cook ready meals for dinner. He has a glass or two of wine. I stick to hot lemon and honey drinks and Covonia Tickly Cough medicine. Another episode of The Good Wife for me when Bob goes shopping, and I read more of Kathy Burke’s memoir. I’ve also kept self-pity at bay by wearing nice dresses rather than slouching around in jeans. Pollyanna lives.

Later in the day, I remember my intention to play violin again after several years. I can’t get the tuning pegs to stay in, but Bob’s stronger hands manage to get it in tune. I play some scales and arpeggios and ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsies’. Feel pleased with myself.

Thursday

At last, better sleep, which means I slept through till 4.00 am, and eventually got back to sleep for half an hour. This is a win. I have a hospital appointment today.
Having checked it’s okay to go with the cold, I’m assured that all outpatients are having to wear masks at Medway Maritime Hospital at present. It could be a long afternoon, so I bring a notebook, Kathy Burke’s memoir and some cough sweets. I’ve moved on from Covonia Tickly Cough to Covonia Chesty Cough. I’m keeping Kleenex in business (good quality tissues are essential to avoid a sore nose). Party’s still in doubt. Bugger.

Cough under control for a while at the breast clinic, but kicks in as I wait between mammogram and results. Coughing with a mask on is tricky. I post Hall’s Soothers beneath the mask into my gob. The mammogram is normal. I’m so relieved when told I’m being discharged, all I can say is, ‘Cool’.

Friday

Have accepted that I am on the sick list for the party. Apologies come from other invitees including Bob’s nieces, one snowed in, another ill, and a couple more lurgy-stricken folk. Kleenex consumption has risen, now on a third box. Desperately hoping that efforts to keep my distance from Bob will stop contagion. Realise I’ve sneezed on my hand before handling bananas, one for me, one for Bob, so wash hands and bananas. Still remaining as cheerful as I can, though I’m slouching in jeans and T-shirt rather than nice dress. My new dress for the party will be debuted on another occasion.

Saturday

My Bowie albums, complete with address stickers for when I took them to parties

Self-pity has set in. Pollyanna has left the building. Coughing is getting me down, and keeping me awake at night. Play some Bowie (it’s ten years since he died), Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane, which I have on vinyl. Not Blackstar, which might just do me in. Resolve to allow misery in for half an hour, then do cheering things that don’t take much energy.

Send Bob out for The Guardian and grapes, as he’ll be out from late morning until after the party. I’ve asked to reschedule my dermatology appointment on Monday, plus will defer 24-hour blood pressure monitoring, due midweek.

Looking out the bedroom window over the River Medway, I see a patch of sunlight over the Hoo Peninsula. Find this cheering.

Think nobody will want to read this diary. If you have read this far, thank you.

Later, after trying and failing to nap, woken repeatedly by the cough, the cough, the cough, I remember the years when I barely left the house, sat with a notebook in the armchair near the window. I wrote a poem about my ageing cat armchair bird-hunting, with her on the arm of the chair where I sat and a robin on a branch outside the window, her mouth open, croaking at the creature she would never catch.

Sunday

Bob is so sad because I missed his party

Tears finally come this morning, down to lack of sleep due to coughing and reports from the party. A great time was had by all, but I was missed.

Not so sad after all…

Monday

Slept last night! Joy! Major coughing fit over breakfast, but it feels like things are finally shifting. Delighted to hear from old friend from primary school after last week’s Substack post. We resolve to meet. Starting to feel cheerful again.

Bob, however, has a tickly throat.

Things achieved in a lurgy week-and-a-half

Two ring binders of my writing read through and sent to recycling.

Kitchen cupboard doors cleaned.
Several episodes of The Good Wife watched.

Films watched: Jerry Maguire, Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown, Challengers, Goodbye June.

Books read: A Mind of My Own, by Kathy Burke; With Love, Grief and Fury, by Selena Godden.

Boxes of Kleenex consumed: three and a half, so far.

Violin tuned and played.

Charity shop dress, priced £3, altered and worn.

It would help my recovery, and go someway towards covering my Kleenex and Covonia bills, if you were to buy a copy of Learning to be Irish. Stick it to the man by buying direct from me (UK orders only). Links to other places to buy are also listed here: Learning to be Irish.