Mrs M and I have been under the weather over the last seven days. I am tempted to call it flu but I have used the word too often to make it stick now. The fact that my bride shares the same symptoms allows me to let her make this call; after all she is the nurse in the family.
In between regular doses of paracetamol, one of the spin-offs from being ill is that you have the pleasure, if I may use such a word, of watching daytime telly; much of which is rather banal.
Perhaps that’s what you need when you can’t concentrate on anything more significant; TV that doesn’t stimulate too much.
I had often heard it said that we Brits have an obsession with the weather but now I have had it confirmed by the fact that all of the news programmes have covered the snowfall from every conceivable angle.
They usually start with a reporter stood near snowdrifts. I presume they feel this helps us viewers to realise how truly cold it is. We are then shown footage of abandoned cars and pensioners being helped from isolated buildings.
Following information about how many roads are affected we are shown video clips of the many schools that have been closed across the region.
They always seem to close the report with scenes of kids sledging so that we are not left feeling too depressed by our countries inability to deal with adverse weather conditions.
Drivers of 4 x 4 vehicles have come out well in most of the reports. It appears that not only do they have cars that don’t struggle with snow but they are also extremely neighbourly.
Mrs M and I have also received good support from friends and family during this winter illness; they have been more than willing to come to our aid by providing much needed food and supplies.
I have managed to get the shop myself during moments when I have felt slightly better but have faced a significant challenge when it comes coping with being ill: in most shops I am only allowed to buy two packets of pain killers.
Here is the main problem. We have two sick adults in the house who are fully committed to using painkillers in order to get through and yet I am forced to visit several shops in order to buy in a sufficient supply for our needs.
When your main goal is to keep your temperature down it really matters that you have drugs available on demand. In fact we have an electronic thermometer and therefore can accurately monitor the effects of our malaise at regular intervals.
Because of this I can confidently announce that for the first time in our thirty years together I am officially hotter than my wife.
In order to deal with our painkiller shortages I have had to recruit several friends to visit local shops to in order to provide a regular supply. I am not sure that turning such good people into potential drug dealers is what they intended when they decided to limit how many packets each person could buy.
Mrs M is keen that I receive my supply of pills so that she can remove me from my position as the hot one in our relationship.
Mrs M is the Hot One
Hot Chilli
If asked my family will tell you I am a decent cook. In truth I have learnt to make a few meals well enough to fool everyone in to believing that I know what I am doing. Mrs M gave me the ultimate compliment a few days ago when she said that she generally prefers to eat my food than what we have when we eat out. I need to point out, however, that she only said this in response to the pressure I was giving her to make a decision about what she wanted from the menu at a local Indian restaurant. It seems that it is the quality of my food that has made it almost impossible for her to make a speedy decision.
When it comes to choosing a curry my wife and I have different approaches. Mrs M goes for the relative safety of a fairly mild option, whereas I like a dish that will put up something of a fight. When the food arrives we do the husband and wife thing of trying each other’s dishes only to return to our own version of the perfect curry.
I do tend to avoid the infamous Vindaloo these days normally stating the apocryphal story that it is not authentically Asian and was only made to placate the often drunk British punter, who wanted a hotter dish than was normally available, to feed his larger fuelled hunger. Whether or not Vindaloo means ‘the one with the potato’, said to have been used to distinguish it from other dishes, I no longer choose to eat it.
In truth it is too hot for me these days and tends to bring on both an attack of perspiration and the threat of tears. Don’t think, however, that I have stopped liking spicy food altogether.
At home I will occasionally make a chilli that contains fire and usually the family appreciate it in silence. It is one of those dishes that stops you worrying about the general pressures of life by firmly locating you in the moment.
If it were not for the possibility of indigestion it would be perfect to get rid of one’s thoughts just before you go to sleep. Or perhaps it would work as breakfast in order to remove any potential worries for the day.
It would certainly be better than the rabbit food that Mrs M usually makes me eat. I recently tried to protest about this produce by suggesting that now I am over fifty some of its contents are a little too hard for my teeth.
Unfortunately my bride bought me some porridge as an alternative but this is even worse than the rabbit food. Firstly, it takes more effort than I am willing to expend on a breakfast that doesn’t contain bacon. Secondly, it is only a healthy option if you refrain from adding sugar or honey, or indeed anything else that would make it taste of anything palatable.
On reflection the porridge does have something in common with my hot chilli; both them have the ability to distract you from the worries of the day. One by filling your mouth with fire; the other by filling your life with boredom and your mouth with wallpaper paste.
The Whole Truth and Nothing But.....
Perhaps I am growing cynical in my middle age but somehow I cannot watch the television news without wondering to myself whether we are being presented with the whole story.
They seem to take a subject then present the most ludicrous extremes of the argument as if there are no other alternatives.
Thank goodness we have hit Christmas time so that we can have the balance of the nativity story to keep our feet on the ground.
Having said this it occurs to me that the same thought often came to mind when I used to watch our daughters performing as angels in the school version of the tale; this is not the whole story.
If you were to remove from the tableau the various bits of tradition that have been added over the years and the copious amounts of tinsel, silver paper, runny noses, and tea towels, what would we be left with.
Perhaps it would be a tale of enemy occupation, corrupt government, ethnic cleansing, and asylum seekers. All too familiar stories that seem to be often repeated on our news screens.
I understand that primary school teachers would be hounded out of their classrooms if they were to invest time in such subjects at what has become the season to party and enjoy the excesses we have become used to.
I feel sure, however, that we miss some of the subtlety of the scene. The promise that we are not left alone in our helplessness. The hope that one a day a child would be born who would bring about a different way of seeing the world. The reality that those in power don’t like such grass roots ideas. Even perhaps the possibility that there is some purpose in this corner of the universe!
One thing is for certain in the tale that we have come to know as the nativity; it is not the whole story. The main characters all seem to be the wrong type of people for such a seemingly important event. They had ancestors who were murderers and prostitutes. They were from the wrong part of the country. Without any connections that would make them seem powerful. Perhaps there is hope for us all.
One wonders how such a story would be covered by today’s television media. Would they interview the wise men about possible delays in travelling across borders during the holiday season? Or perhaps run a documentary series on the corruption in corridors of local government.
They would probably try to find a quirky angle from which to view the whole thing. Perhaps it would be the various uses of camel dung or the problems of finding hotel accommodation at the time of a census.
One thing is for sure; it would not be the whole story.
Thank goodness we have discovered the true meaning of Christmas today. Nigella Lawson’s recipe for goose-fat roast potatoes. The infamous cola advert. The office party. The vast amounts of money spent on presents.
And enough alcohol to cover up any thoughts of ethnic cleansing or a supposed visit from a deity in the form of a baby. Perhaps the newscasters have understood us well; after all we don’t really like the whole story.
