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Half time arrived and he thought he had better give me five minutes of sympathy.
“What’s that noise,” he asked as my inner workings gave a great gurgle of unease.
“Wind,” I told him and he went to the window.
“It’s quite calm out there,” he said.
“Not in here, it’s not,” I said holding my hand to my belly region.
DH quickly turned the sound on the television back up again. He is a bit of a prude when it comes to discussing bodily functions and he really would rather not know.
“Anything you want?” he enquired gruffly.
“Bed” I croaked, wanting attention and sympathy.
I left him to the match, much to his relief.

DH's idea of care is food and I was just about to drop off after several painful and noisy trips to the little room, when he arrived – game finished by now, of course – at my bedside with FOOD! A large plateful of toasted cheese and a creamy chocolate drink.
“No, thanks” I groaned.
He got really huffy. “I go to all this trouble to feed you and you throw it back in my face.”
I thought, if I eat this, it really will be thrown back in your face.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he whined.
“Eat it yourself” I suggested and turned my back on him. I felt so awful that I expected to hear my own death rattle any moment.
“Women! They really take the prize for inconsistency,” I heard him mutter as he left me to myself.

Eventually I dropped off, but not to restful slumber but to a night of fevered dreams of doctors chasing me with huge hypodermic syringes (I wonder what Freud would make of that) and toasted cheese dressings.
No one could have been more surprised than I to wake in the morning and find that I actually felt better. DH was already up and I hoped that he might have reverted to his original plan to feed the sick and have breakfast ready. Even cold toasted cheese would be acceptable, but sizzling bacon and eggs would really hit the spot.

From the kitchen, unfortunately, there came no tantalising smells of a good fry-up. Nothing emanated from the room, not even the mouth-watering odour of fresh coffee. Instead I found DH sitting at the table, head in hand, looking much as I had done the previous evening. a cup of coffee, cooling rapidly, sat on the table before him.

“I feel awful,” he wailed.
“Oh, poor dear,” I commiserated. “I know what you need. I’ll fix you a nice big plate of hot toasted cheese sandwiches. How would that be?” I was joking, of course.

I shouldn’t have taunted him. Now I have to mop up the kitchen floor. Last night’s double ration of cheese and toast takes quite a while to clean up.

THE END.

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