I am not very good when I am ill with *little things, like my ‘front head (otherwise known as my face) cold syndrome’. I soldier on and go to work (mainly because I am freelance and have to because I don’t get paid if I don’t), am a martyr to the cause and like to go to bed, a LOT, with honey and lemon, a hot water bottle and sometimes a slice of pizza. I’d prefer chicken soup and not the sh*tty own-brand chicken wáter from the supermarket downstairs, that is not the same as a bowl of steaming Knorr chicken noodle soup cash till lady…… and anyway, it doesn’t taste the same when you have to boil the kettle yourself.
I don’t really like to see people or speak to people (more than normal) or for people to see me with my John Merrick eyes and red nose. I’m British, of course I have high colouration in the cold, the hot, the wind, the rain and when I am sick and have to wipe it a lot. OK?
Absolutely no room for little people in that scenario. Unless they are capable of constructing soup from a packet and bringing it to mummy. Remember, no daddy in this story, more on that later.
And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #14
NB. Writing from my sick-bed.
*If I’ve got something serious like pneumonia, I don’t even go to hospital. Go figure.