Life is a cabaret...

I suppose that many of you have already had dealings with the Covid Fairy?

Up till last week, I had avoided her extremely successfully, but last Monday, she shuffled into my life.  Overweight, dressed in a shabby pink tutu with a fag hanging off her bottom lip and ash settled on her crepe bosom, her 'seen better days' wand dithered over various folk before settling on me while I was happily belting out Killer Queen at the O2.

'Don't worry about it', said the husband, 'it's just like a cold now'.  Says the man who had Covid after Christmas, lasting around fourteen minutes.  I think he managed three coughs and two, 'Is it warm in here?' comments before it went on its merry way again.  

So I was optimistic that by Wednesday I'd be up and at 'em once again...

Fast forward to aforementioned Wednesday.  I've not moved from my bed for seventy two hours, am coughing like I've got a fifty a day habit, and I hate everyone who I have been in contact with over the past week (including the 60,000 or so Queen fans from Saturday night).  So the husband had to don his nurse outfit for the week (this hasn't seen light of day for some time, and the red cape just about masked the fact that the zip wouldn't do up at the back).  Finished off with sensible shoes and a ten to two walk, he looked after me well, sliding food across my threshold and making me more cups of tea than it's possible to drink over a 24 hour period.

And this is what surprised me most.

Because I was ill, he had to cancel a much looked forward bike trip with his best buddy.  He'd been hopping from foot to foot for the last month in anticipation of three nights in a field with his mini barbecue and twenty or so tribute bands.  'Did I tell you that there is going to be an ACDC tribute band?' he had asked me (six times).  On the Wednesday night, it became clear that the Covid Fairy had decided she rather liked hanging out with me (I must be great company), so he made the long walk down to his mate's house with a cooler bag full of sausages and beer (if you could imagine a teenager walking to his bedroom having been told to clear it up you'll picture the scene).

Feet dragging, head bowed, and muttering under the breath something along the lines of 'It's not fair', you'll have a good idea of what the husband looked like. 

I only started feeling better yesterday, so I don't think I really appreciated what he was doing while he was doing it.  I said to him yesterday that I would make it up to him at the weekend.

His little eyes lit up, 'Oh yes, what do you have in mind, then?'  This was said with a wink which had more innuendo than Benny Hill.  

He'd forgotten that we are off to see Cabaret - two hours of camp Germanic singing should be more than ample reward I think....