Merry Bloody Christmas

My wife and I are celebrating our twentieth Christmas together this year. It’s safe to say we are not the most fortunate of couples when it comes to this festive period. I cannot recall more than three or perhaps four christmasses which haven’t been blighted by one or the other of us being ill, either on the day itself, or during the frantic week leading up to it.

This year, presumably because a twentieth anniversary is a thing of rareity these days, the curse of Christmas has gone all in and screwed us both over at the same time. We have swine flu.

Well I suspect it’s swine flu, we have all the symptoms, sore throat, high temperatures alternating with spells of shivering, loss of appetite, at least in Sues’ case, whereas I am eating almost constantly.

As I write this, it is day five on the couch. A full nights sleep is a distant memory. Sue retires early each night with a lemsip to the marital bed, and I grab a pillow and a duvet, curl up with the multitude of remote controls for the TV, media streamer and DVD player, a book, snacks and a drink, turn on the TV and promptly drop off to sleep, only to wake gasping for breath ninety minutes later with a throat coated in razor blades and nostrils encrusted in primordial slime, through which it is impossible to draw enough oxygen to sustain life.

The next ten minutes are spent on running repairs to my respiratory system, which involves much snorting, moaning and groaning, before returning to the couch, heart beating excessively fast for so little exertion. This series of events repeats at regular intervals throughout the night, until daylight convinces me it is time to rise, unrefreshed.

But time and tide wait for no man, and neither does Christmas. Presents have to be bought, as does food and drink, cards written and posted. Its not a social experience though this year, its all via the internet. In this season of cheer, cameraderie and goodwill to all men, we are reduced to cowering behind the net curtains, reciting “swine flu, swine flu” in a grotesque parody of the unfortunate medieval lepers “unclean”, imploring delivery men to abandon their packages by the gate for their own safety, and painting a big cross on the front door whilst we await the plaintive cry “bring out your dead”.

Throughout all this, the one to suffer most has been our daughter. Not for her bright childhood memories of joyous christmasses, of parties and laughter, turkey and tinsel. Her memories are, sadly, more of lemsip and linctus. But this year, its even worse.

She has reached the age now where she and a group of friends are able to rent a holiday cottage for the new year. They will do the family thing at Christmas, then pack themselves, a few belongings and no doubt copious quantities of cheap booze into a couple of old bangers and beat a hasty retreat to the coast for an early taste of freedom.

She is doing her best to avoid contact with us during these times of contagion, nights spent at friends houses, days spent anywhere but at home. When she must meet us, she does so with a handkerchief clasped to her face and a look of terror in her eyes.

It will all be to no avail though, the curse will get her, it always wins.