Not A Fairy Tale

I have bronchitis. I am too scared to breathe, never mind cough. My nose is sore, my throat is itching and my ears are aching. My body protest when I want to move around and it cannot quite decide whether it is hot or cold. The swings between shivering from cold to being drenched in perspiration are exhausting in itself. Finally, to put the reddest of cherries on the top - my bottom is rather quite still sensitive from last week’s serious one-on-one meeting with HH's cane.
 

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According to these sweet, syrupy romantic novels, I should be quietly lying in a huge, comfortable bed, covered with crisp and cool bed linen. Dressed in a negligee, I should be propped up against continental pillows with my long hair a splash of chocolate curls against the white linen.  My impossibly rich beau would be hovering in concern, whilst his servants are rushing back and forth with freshly squeezed orange juice and chicken soup.

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I will be staring lovingly at my handsome man in his designer clothes, with my eyes huge and framed against my marble white skin, as he will be tenderly holding my hand, whispering his declarations of love to me. And when I wince as my tender bottom protest, he would with a snap of his finger, ensure that all the servants disappear, so that he could gently cradle me in his arms, after he has ever so gently rubbed some soothing cream over the freshly caned flesh. During this scene, not once will I complain, only weakly smile at all the ministrations going on around me, and then close my eyes, to drift gently to sleep again.

There will be no record of the slightly unladylike coughing spells that send my cats scattering, or anything about the muttered swear words whilst I am looking for a fresh box of tissues. The fact that I am constantly changing into fresh pyjamas as the fever attacks come and go, having now to resort to the old and faded ones, whilst waiting for the washing machine to catch up, would also not be noted. And although I can confirm that I do make use of bed linen, neat, cool and crisp it is not – my bed appears to have been in some major war, with pillows scattered all over, and a duvet twisted and partially hanging onto the floor.  

Nothing will be said about my mood swings that can be anything from crying spells when self-pity becomes too strong, irritation in not being able to get on with my life or pure temper tantrums because the latter two emotions are frustrating me. Nothing will be penned down about words being used, colouring the room blue, when I move to quickly with a bottom to remind me of lessons learned last week.

 

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Although Uncle Nick has spent hours with me on Skype these last couple of days, clearly concerned about my health, he has not changed into this stranger I do not know, he remains what he is. He understands that I hate being confined, not being able to move about, but instead of showering me with sympathy, and trying to coddle me, he mocks my croaky voice, my inability to pronounce words because of my blocked nose, and lowers his voice dramatically when I am only able to whisper during the conversations. I need to be able to laugh, although in between coughing spells,  and that he understands.  



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 When complaining about my sore bottom, he is quick to remind me that it was my because of my own misbehaviour. My temper tantrums, self pity spells and tendency to use barb words whilst feeling irritated, are  either met with quiet warnings to stop acting out, or are plainly ignored. He understands me so well, that he knows that I need to know that even though I am ill, temper tantrums, insolence and arrogance will still not be tolerated. I do not need the orange juice, or the chicken soup, hovering servants or love struck men – I do have what I wanted, something true and real.