Felt absolutely shitty this morning. I kind of knew if I went to work I would end up staying for the duration � its fairly unlike me to miss a day for anything less than, well, death actually. Curse my Stepford sense of propriety. Actually I work on the premise (you may like to try it) that, if you phone in and say "I cant come in today, Im sick" there is always gonna be some smartarse who says, "well, she looked OK yesterday, probably too much whisky, the skiving cow". So I prefer to go in, looking really crappy, sneeze over everyone (or puke or dash to the loo or however the ailment presents itself) and then get sent home, leaving those behind to whisper "God! Did you SEE her? She looked fucking AWFUL. She�s probably got �.(insert name of antisocial, preferable terminal, highly contagious disease of your choice)". Then you�re back home, on the sofa, under the duvet before you can say "Daytime Telly Rots Your Brain" � guilt free because you got SENT HOME. You were quite prepared to stay but, well, the choice wasn�t yours.
Anyway, in readiness of being sent home I wore jeans to work (only allowed on Fridays), collected all the notes from yesterday�s Big Cheese meeting and went to see the General Manager.
Me: "WWWWWAAATCHOOOOO! Is it OK if I work from home today? I�d like to work on that project you gave me yesterday, but Im feeling a bit�Wuh Wuh WWAAATTTCHHHOOOO!
Him (backing away): "Yes, Yes that�s fine" (with the same inflection as someone saying "Urgh! Get out, GET OUT!")
I stressed my contactability (email/mobile/home phone etc) and went to have a chat with Slave. Sorted out the mail and wrote copious notes for her on what could be done with the various stuff hanging about on our desks. Wrote my own contact details on my Rolodex and had a quick departmental meeting, just the two of us.
Me: You OK?
Her: Yep. Go Home
Me: Got enough to keep you going today?
Her: Umm, yes, I think so
Me: (Making a face and imperceptibly motioning towards Capt. Skiver and the Incredible Sulk) Im not asking you as your boss, you silly cow, Im asking you as your friend
Her: (Making a similar face, in recognition of our solidarity) Oh. Well, Ive got enough to LOOK busy all day.
Me: Good girl, don�t knock yourself out. Email me if it gets really bad.
Her: (laughing) OK. Now get out. And don�t breathe on me.
At lunchtime I got an email asking me to check a letter she wanted to send out. At the bottom it said "Don�t leave me alone with them again. Whine Whine Whine Whine Whine."
I replied that the letter was fine, I was sorry she didn�t like the case of whine Id left her and telling her where in the basement she could find some 5 foot partitioning and the name of the guy in the warehouse who could help her erect it around her desk. I hope she laughed.
BF returned from a trip to Chigley at lunchtime bearing Get Well Soon gifts of such charming naivety that I almost expected him to have drawn me a nice crayon picture to go with them. 4 cans of soup (various flavours)*, two boxes of tissues (the ones with the balsam stuff in so you don�t get a red nose) and 30 long stemmed roses � shades of maroon, baby pink and cream (aww, don�t get excited, they�re from the supermarket. I�ll get lynched if I confess to it in the office, bearing in mind who I work for).
He made Heinz Cream of Tomato soup and a Marmite sandwich for lunch and I put the roses in the sitting room. Then I went to bed. BF came too, obviously exhausted from his extensive retail and culinary workout. Twenty minutes later I was up again as I had convinced myself that my coughing would be pissing him off (and my nasal passages were so full of snot I thought I was about to suffocate). As I got out of bed I said "Sorry baby, Ive got to get up, I feel SO shitty". He opened one eye and did that scan up and down thing that women are supposed to find offensive and said (despite the fact that I was wearing only a pair of Pater�s black socks and some not very sexy knickers and wasn�t holding my stomach in), "You still look fucking lovely tho", which I think was very loyal and courageous of him, before going immediately back to sleep.
Took a couple of paracetamol-with-caffeine tabs around 4. WHY didn�t I take them before? Within about ten minutes I felt sufficiently OK to be able to go upstairs to the office and switch on the PC and by 5 I had done half of the work Id brought home with me. Even felt sufficiently OK to use my powers of persuasion on BF and talk him into getting a takeaway tonight � even tho we can ill afford it and we generally DON�T (see below!). I doubt I�ll go into the office tomorrow (especially as I�ve lost my voice � not much point in being able to boss people about on the phone and in person if they are going "Wha? Wha�yousay?") so hope to finish off the rest of the work and return all efficient on Thursday with reports all done. Hooray for me.
*Just a note about the soup. Being Queen Stepford, as well you know, means packets/tins/ready meals etc are pretty much a no-no in this house. Despite working full-time and having two kids, I still cook pretty much every meal we eat from scratch. Ive listened to every argument there is about making rods for one�s own back etc etc but I really do actually prefer it This Way. I do make concessions, of course, but they are few (Filet-O-Fish/Jaffa Cakes/stuff we eat when we�re stoned). Now, don�t get me wrong, Im not suggesting that you all should follow suit and neither do I wish for you to go "who does she think she is then? SuperFuckingWoman?". The reasons behind it are simple. When I was StepfordWife I didn�t go out to work. I also had some very major health problems, which meant I had to be very careful about what I ate. The obvious way to do this is to eat food that only I had mucked about with! Once you�ve got into the habit of doing that, its almost impossible to stop as ready prepared food just tastes�.ummm�different. AND its more expensive. My girls are used to �proper home cooking� (God, that sounds so rude, Im so sorry) and regard convenience foods as a rare and definite treat � Jooj once came home from a tea party and said "We had cakes mummy, and they were FROM A BOX with EACH ONE wrapped up ON ITS OWN!!!"
So you see, four cans of soup (all different) is something of a rarity in this house. Something really to be remarked upon. And smiled gently at, as even BF knows that a child of 5 could make soup, love him. He is a poppet. (and the soup was very nice and comforting, just as he knew it would be).
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