Saturday 22 January 2011

A narrow escape

15st 7lb, 4.5 units. Diet on track, tick. Health improving, tick. I took my first statin tablet last night and must reluctantly admit that I woke up feeling appreciably better this morning. Of course that could well be pure coincidence. But then I felt better last time I took them, too, even though I really wanted to be able to join enthusiastically in those dinner party conversations about hideous side effects like wasting muscles. But then, to be realistic, I’ve never really had any muscles to waste away in the first place.

Question: if I was prescribed medications that had no apparent harmful side effects and actually made me feel better, why was I so keen to stop taking them? Really just because swallowing half a dozen pills every day, as I did for several years, made me feel like a really old man. Now, I suppose, I can just about accept the fact that that is what I am.

Mrs H, on the other hand, did not wake up feeling great, despite being four days into a course of elephant-strength antibiotics for the throat infection that laid her low on Tuesday. So I nobly went off to the nursery to play with our son so that she could enjoy a little more sleep. It all went well enough, really. I just ignored the increasingly powerful smell in the room and could probably have maintained that position until lunchtime if The Boy had not led me to the adjoining bathroom, laid out a plastic change mat and pronounced “Daddy – mat – poo.” I suppose I would have been within my rights to take a dump on the mat myself, but (a) I am far too shy, (b) I am suffering from mild constipation and (c) his meaning was perfectly clear. We looked at each other, both keenly aware – and I am not proud of this, but I fear it has to be said – that Daddy has not actually changed his nappy in 19 whole months. Then we decided that the safest thing would be to get Mummy out of her sick bed so that she could SHOW Daddy how to change a nappy (after all, it is a long time since that NCT course) so that he will know exactly how to do it next time.

It was not pleasant, I can tell you that.

I am far from looking forward to next time.

I wonder how much longer I can keep this up? Surely it can’t be long until The Boy is potty trained and waltzing off to the khazi all by himself (or the ladies’ khazi with his Mummy when out)?

Poor Mrs H. Yes, I know, she deserves better. But then she married me – entirely sober and undrugged - despite having a pretty clear idea of what I was like from reading this blog, so it can be argued that she only has herself to blame.

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