I don't feel terribly healthy at the moment. Bizarre. What could be healthier than 5 hours sleep a night, endless cups of builders' tea, Levonelle abuse, whole meals composed of confectionery and no exercise? I am totally certain that was the diet of the week in Grazia recently. It was definitely featured on Lorraine Kelly.
Indeed, the whole household seems a little under the weather. The CFO is complaining of a sore throat and feeling 'space', a tenuous French concept that seems to manifest as gloomy silence interspersed with over the top shouting. We take it in turns to twitch at night - I take the early shift, unable to sleep before 1 or 2; then he takes over, waking at 4. By 6 I am sitting morosely in the kitchen poking the dog, while he is out in the back yard performing a tortoise census. The weepette and the children have runny noses, but the dog is more stoic about it (presumably still reflecting on the words of Marcus Aurelius).
On top of this, Lashes has a terrifying verrucca that looks like it has a plan for world domination. We tried to sneak up on him during the night to use the burning freezing tool of pain, but I had an uncontrollable giggling fit whilst trying to grab his scrabbly, twitching foot and woke him up. There is something so funny and so mournful about the puzzled expression of a child that you have accidentally woken. It reminds me of all my mother's stories of Glaswegian menfolk coming home from a night on the piss and waking the baby for entertainment. The last time I woke him up in the middle of the night it was, as per his express request, to show him a toad I had just caught. The toad hopped all over the duvet and then peed on us, but Lashes did not remember a single thing about it in the morning. I wish I slept like that. Once woken, I got to adopt my now familiar Lashes brace position (also used for the removal and insertion of stitches, blood tests, injections and claw trimming) while the CFO did the scorching (He always gets to be bad cop; he does it so well). It doesn't seem to have done any good. I have offered him the prospect of a trip to Dr Kevorkian, the dead eyed verucca killer of Uccle, but he flatly refuses. The leaflet from the deadly potion says veruccas naturally disappear after 2-3 years, so I suspect we will be going with that option. I remember trying to cut my own verucca off with scissors rather than tell anyone when I was about 10, so I sympathise.
The thing is, I believe my body owes me one (for the alopecia, the knee of death, the freak pregnancies), and has to be on its best behaviour for the rest of my life regardless of what abuse I throw at it. Sadly my body has not received this memo and continues to go about its brisk business of decline and decay. This is compounded by a demented belief that there is something very decadent and unBritish about looking after yourself. We must ignore all signs of decrepitude until our falling limbs and involuntary groans start to inconvenience our neighbours. It is The British Way.
Do you look after yourselves, citizens of the internet? And if so, do you recommend it?