Wuthering heights, the lost chapter: Snot and portents

Part Eighteen.

It’s all gone a bit Wuthering Heights for me. I’m up in darkest (and that isn’t a figure of speech) Yorkshire, listening to the wind soughing through the trees and chimneys while the rain lashes the window. I’m stuck in bed in Raven Lodge (yes, really) trying to sweat the flu out.

In fact, it’s possible that I may have hallucinated my way through the last few weeks. It’s difficult to decide where exactly it all started….

I went out for a pint or three with my mate for her birthday, not long after I arrived. That was pretty surreal itself. Everything went smoothly enough for the most part, and she didn’t slip into her blues singer (though I use the term advisedly) alter ego. We sat happily enough at the bar, engaged in the traditional pastime of gossiping unashamedly about each new arrival. Nothing terrible happened when I accompanied her to the smoker’s shed (we saved that for our next visit). It all got a little strange when we returned though. An exceptionally insalubrious  and raddled example of what I had to assume was humanity (it was bipedal and most apes smell better) had installed himself next to her stool. He wasn’t unpleasant, but I think he took a shine to her.

Muttering and dribbling he began to stroke whatever parts of her became available. This did not go down too well, and she asked him to desist. Repeatedly. No effect, so I tried. Same result. Shortly afterwards there was a sound rather like ‘gnfff’ (the sound you get by jumping on an almost deflated football?) and two fine specimens of local manhood caught the offender as he sank floorward. Now I’m not suggesting there was any connection, but my mate’s elbow was a bit tender the following day.

The following morning I was woken by sneezing. Mine. It was so violent that it did something very painful to my neck and I struggled to swallow. No better by the following day, I inveigled a doctor’s appointment and came away with a prescription I needed two hands to carry. I carefully followed the instructions and promptly passed out. Things weren’t much better the next day, when the side effects kicked in and I spent the day prostrate on the sofa with my head in a bucket.

The weather gods were kind to me though, it pissed it down, so I didn’t feel guilty about remaining horizontal (not that I had any choice). I gradually adjusted to the medication, although my perceptions of reality may have been slightly altered. I persisted in trying to bring the garden under control during the day. At night, possibly thanks to the drugs, things got rather strange. The wind had been increasing steadily and every night it howled and caterwauled it’s way through the eaves and round the corners. This combined with ever so slightly mind altering substances led to some truly bizarre dreams, you know, the sort where you find yourself wide awake and bolt upright in bed, convinced that you have heard something nasty downstairs? And then you wake up? It wasn’t very restful and probably enhanced some of the less desirable side effects. Of course watching several episodes of Father Ted before retiring probably didn’t help either. The televisual equivalent of half a pound of gorgonzola and a couple of chilli peppers?

At some point I was invited to attend a film evening at a local pub. Intrigued, I accepted and donned my gladrags. As far as I could tell when we arrived, the audience consisted of two or three bemused locals who just wanted a quiet pint, and a handful of eccentric ex pats from various corners of the world. We settled down with our bowls of popcorn and the slightly distressing smell of long unwashed upholstery (adds to the authenticity of the experience) to watch ‘The Big Lebowski’. One lady cackled her way through the whole thing, regardless of what was happening on screen. My companion grumbled and occasionally asked me what the hell was supposed to be going on (English isn’t her first language, if there were any subtleties they were lost on her). She dropped me off at the end of my track, I trudged up, drank a glass of wine and wondered if I had imagined it all.

The wind persisted and I continued with the medication. Eventually it was time to go. I went. For the first time in months I was feeling quite fit and healthy. I was positively looking forward to Christmas with my daughter and her family.

I arrived at Himself’s at four in the morning, cuddled up next to him… ‘I think I may have a cold’….

He did indeed have a cold, which first manifested itself as gallons of snot and subsequently as an extremely irritating cough.

Convinced (on previous evidence) that he was about to die, I was persuaded to stay an extra night and soothe his fevered brow. He kept me awake all night with his bloody cough.

The day of my departure dawned, with weather warnings of rain and gales for most of the country (the previous day had, of course, been clear and still). I set forth and spent the next 230 miles trying my best not to die for Xmas. I had left the dog behind, so worried was I that I might meet a sticky end on the journey.

The following day I went to catch the train to London, but nothing turned up. I got a lift to a bigger station and watched as the train pulled away from in front of me.. . When I eventually got there I was feeling a little seedy, but I put it down to all the travelling. My daughter and I stayed up late, assembling the little one’s flat pack kitchen (roughly half life size and just as bloody complicated). At least I know what to get my son in law next year. Screwdrivers that aren’t made out of tinfoil!!!

If they aren’t careful, the child may turn into a mini Mrs Doyle….

The following day I was drowning in my own snot.

Then I passed it on. I don’t think I’m very popular there now.

On the way back I thought I was being clever by going to Stratford. Don’t. It’s shit. Underground it’s a poorly signed rabbit warren, above ground, having followed what signs you can find, you can stand on the platform you thought you needed and watch your train depart from the opposite platform.

Things were not going well.

After a day for recuperation I once again got in the van and headed ooop North. Himself was still coughing, but I thought my cold was defeated at last. So I replaced it with flu. He’s still coughing. One of us may have to die.