My husband is a GOD.

I've been sniffling and coughing my way through the early stages of a nasty head cold. The weather today is lovely, and but for one quick trip down to the shopping precinct to pick up some micro meals from Marks & Sparks and various cold supplies, I've mostly been poking around online, or sitting in my chair next to the window in the conservatory, making granny squares, drinking apple juice, and feeling sorry for myself. My coldless streak has come to an ignominious and mucosal end, and at this point, I should probably just be grateful the sore throat is mostly gone. (I spent most of yesterday in deep denial, insisting the tingling sinuses and sore throat were obviously allergy-related. Or maybe I slept on my back with my mouth open. But it definitely wasn't aaaaaaaaa-CHOOO! Oh fuck.) I really, really hate sore throats, a legacy of a childhood spent getting one Strep infection after another. As an adult, I've mostly had the robust immune system of a sewer rat, but every now and then, some virus will fell me, and I just have to ride it out.

And do you know what that man did? He went out into the garden, mixed up a bunch of fertiliser and compost and spread it out over the rose beds. All by himself, without any help from his whinging, sickly wife. AND HE WEEDED, TOO. And when I thanked him, he said, "Aw, love, you already do so much around here. Just try to feel better."

If only I could breathe through my nose, I'd thank him properly.