I have decided to concentrate on finishing the renovation of the vicarage. I have a new kitchen and this week the bathroom in the top floor bedroom is finally installed; The building permit has taken months.
I’m so excited about having girlfriends to stay with that I’ve gone a little crazy. I installed a mini fridge, it’s like a hotel, I bought Aesop products and candles.
I bought bedding at Ikea – did you know a Oxford cotton pillowcase costs £2.50? How did I not know this? I think having a friend to stay with is much nicer than a man. They notice everything without being asked: ‘Did you see the incredible skylight? The stone staircase? The chandelier? Men never seem to look up. Or get the giggles.
But this week I was struck down by illness. I have tonsillitis again, just a few weeks after my last fight. OMG I just googled sore throat after sex. No matter my other symptoms (I’m embarrassed to list them here), I may have oral chlamydia. Tomorrow I take the test.
On my last visit the GP was quite negative I thought. ‘As you get older, you are more prone to viruses. Have you had shingles? God knows what he’ll think now, when I show up with stained sweatpants and messy hair (I haven’t been able to wash, or even drink water, my throat hurts so much) and tell him how many unprotected sex I’ve had. having.
He’ll think I have psychiatric problems, Walter Mitty syndrome. It’s like when I see a woman the size of a bungalow in Tesco, pushing a small baby in a stroller, and I think, cruelly: ‘How could you have sex?’ They will offer me counseling, not antibiotics. I’m waiting for the results.
But, my God, I’m a lot sicker than I thought. I am now writing this from my hospital bed at Darlington Memorial. I suppose this is the first time I’ve archived a copy while hospitalized, although I’ve archived from some strange places: a hammock in the middle of Everest, Ian Fleming’s Jamaican villa, the back of taxis during fashion weeks, a service station on the M1 (this is when Thatcher died).
The GP was so surprised because I had not eaten for five days and could no longer swallow water, that he referred me immediately. Nic took me. Of course, the parking lots were full.
Finally, we managed to enter. The ENT doctor who examined my mouth was impressed by the size of my left tonsil. Now my entire face is swollen; It’s like it has filling. He took blood samples (“That’s almost an entire armful!” A room of blank stares. Why doesn’t anyone remember Tony Hancock?), gave me steroids, intravenous antibiotics and now I’m on a fluid drip and painkillers for a couple of hours. to see if the swelling and pain go down.
I will never again underestimate the work of doctors and nurses.
The surgeon came back with the results. ‘It’s glandular fever. The kissing disease. No wonder you’ve been so sick since you met the German. It turns out that even surgeons need a little relief from reading newspaper columns.
Glandular fever is more common in teenagers who kiss a lot. It is transmitted through saliva and sperm. We kiss a lot. He has a very strong tongue. I haven’t been around a single other soul. I spend every day alone, writing. When I take care of the horses, I am alone.
I’m waiting for the drip to finish and for the surgeon to let me know if he wants me to spend the night here. So this is where I end. She is not married to a handsome man and lives part-time by the Thames. But on a narrow hospital stretcher, with needles in my arm and only the drip to keep me company.
JONES MOANS…WHAT LIZ HATES THIS WEEK
- Hospital car parks. Why are they always full?
- People who say, ‘It’s my forever home.’ It’s not, is it? No one lives forever, despite what Liam Gallagher may sing.
- And why when you open a package of tablets do you always get the leaflet folded?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess