This is the 'I'm so ill' post. Skip it if you like.

This weekend was dire.

We were invited to two parties saturday night, and instead poor Marek got to peel me oranges and make me soup, while I coughed and spluttered and moaned and drove myself round the bend.

He is an angel that guy. He did all the shopping, cleaned the place, made me all the comforting food I could stomach and stocked up on so many pills and potions that we will never, ever, have to go to another apteka in our lives.

Marek takes looking after the sick seriously. It's like a full time job. He's strict too. If I haven't taken the vitamins or haven't finished my soup, he shakes his head, gives me such a stern look I feel ashamed and sticks a thermometer under my arm.

He had the audacity to admit, the first day I was ill, that he almost likes it when I'm all feeble and needy. Less talking back. I guess he gets to be the man for once, the provider and One In Charge, which let's face it, I don't let him be all the time...

I haven't had this kind of all-consuming illness for a while so I have been spared the antique Polish torture methods for some time. I got out of the feet in boiling water thing but swallowed down the sickly warmed milk with butter and honey. Just the once. Urgh.

I made myself hot lemon and honey, and succumbed to the inhalation thing and to being wrapped up in so many layers that I thought I may suffocate. They are mean, these traditional treatments.

Then. Then, I nearly cast Marek out of my life forever, when I poured myself a glass of cold juice. Marek walked into the kitchen and looked at the juice. He looked at me, shocked, then back at the juice. He was so stunned I might as well have been sawing off my arm with a carving knife. His eyes were saying 'juice? cold? do you WANT TO DIE??!' and then he shook his head, and turned away from this unbearable sight.

It was almost worth it. That juice was so soothing on my poor throat.