I am drowning in a sea of mucus

On Tuesday my mucous membranes had lost control completely, leaving me feeling SO bad that had I been in possession of a guillotine I would have gladly put my head in it.

I was forced to take to my bedchamber, where I stayed until my phone rang.

It was the Teen: “Please can you pick me up and what’s for dinner?”

I tried to speak, but soon gave up when I realised I sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and Phyllis Pearce of 1970s Coronation Street fame.

“Dinner? How about some soggy tissues and Tunes with a Lemsip jus?” I thought.

On autopilot I got into my car to fetch her.

“Oh my God Mum, you are wearing your dressing gown with Wellies? What are you doing?”

“Do you think the staff at Smile will let me in?” I enquired.

I scrabbled about in the back of the Getz and with relief pulled out my old, moth-eaten dog walking coat, knowing that my pink stained dressing gown, which I have styled on Onslow from Keeping Up Appearances, would be met with disgust.

The Teen helped me pile tins of soup and tissues into the basket. I could barely see, so red and swollen were my eyes.

I somehow managed to get through the rest of the evening, notwithstanding the ridiculous comments from my sitting tenant (Dad): “Have you seen my yellow shoe horn? Are you feeling poorly? Do you know if you have any fuses?”

The only thing I know about fuses, is that when I’m ill mine’s quite short, and as for his shoe horn, I didn’t know they still existed. I went back to bed in disgust.

I woke up with a start that night thinking I was drowning, which I sort of was, internally. I could hear my Dad starting to sneeze. I listened; I could also hear the Teen sneeze, cough and splutter. My house now resembles the Night of the Living Dead.

Readers who submit articles must agree to our terms of use. The content is the sole responsibility of the contributor and is unmoderated. But we will react if anything that breaks the rules comes to our attention. If you wish to complain about this article, contact us here