cryptic whisperings

I have a history of sleepwalking. Well, I mainly have a history of crashing my parents' dinner parties and demanding food, as well as the more standard nonsense talking nighttime wandering. That's my thing though, sleepwalking.

Marek, on the other hand, is into sleeptalking.

When I first came to Poland it was very frustrating, because I'd be woken up by some incomprehensible mutterings and, unable to remember the Polish until the morning, never know what weird and wonderful things he was dreaming about.

A couple of years later, the situation has evolved, and now I can understand the nonsense he spouts in the middle of the night.

When he's sick, when the line between reality and delirium is less defined, Marek sleeptalks even more.

The latest example was when he fell asleep in front of the tv...

him: (low throaty chuckle) uh-oh!

me: (thinking he was concerned about the fate of the animal about to get savaged in the nature programme on tv) yep

him: who's he going to be next?

me: (realising he is asleep) who?

him: (incredulous) a woman??!

me: (lost) huh?

him: (waking up) nevermind.

Understanding all this Polish may reveal some fascinating things.

Soon. The sickness. It will go.

I no longer feel like I'm at death's door. I'm backing away down the path, one hand on my throat, the other at my head croaking 'another couple of days, just another couple and I'll be fine honest'. No, that's still an exaggeration, I'm feeling much better, apparently looking more alive and sounding less and less like an 80 year old with a serious smoking habit. That's always fun.

Of course, the vicious bug that did this to me didn't leave me before sticking its middle finger up at me, blowing a raspberry at the naive 'no kissing' rule and striking Marek down too. It was inevitable. My nursing skills don't come quite so naturally as they do to angel-boy, but we are sharing the tissues and drugs between ourselves quite nicely.

Anyway, more interestingly it's snowing! It's winter! This time last year -26, but this year, it's barely staying below freezing.

I must be getting better as the realisation that a whole load of work has been piling up as I've been wheezing and groaning is starting to bother me. All in good time.

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.

nope, no title for this one

I know how annoying it is when bloggers are ill and post 'I'm snotty and sick and can't think of anything to say' posts. So I won't. Actually I'm not snotty, just coughing like a dog (literally, think 'woof, woof') and with a throat that will only accept soup and warm liquids containing a good spoonful of honey. But you don't care about that so I won't say any more on the matter.

The only thing making me feel less sorry for myself at the moment is the truly horrible replays they keep showing of that poor Czech boy who fell on his head at Zakopane yesterday. Why do they keep replaying it? It's horrible. The boy (come on, he's younger than my little brother) looked like he was doing fine, flying off the end of the ski jump, and then suddenly something's not quite right, he's not in the right position, and as you watch you're thinking 'Dear God, no, straighten yourself, otherwise you'll land right on your hea...' and then he lands. On his head. And they keep playing it. Ok, we get it. Ski-jumping's a dangerous sport. He is critically ill in hospital. I am not the centre of the world, I just have a cough and a cold. I get it.