They might as well paint a red cross on our door.

D-House is full of bugs, and this time I’m not talking about cockroaches.

Baby Ginge has Bronchiolitis.
D-Missus has a stomach bug, probably because a certain baby with red hair and a viral infection puked up all over her.
D-Girl has fluid in her middle ear.
And the doctor I’ve been seeing says I’m sick in the head.

:)

I didn’t go to work today.
Because I went to work yesterday and I sat there with a headache all day long.
Because I was too scared to go to the new company nurse and get some paracetamol.
Because when I went to get paracetamol the day before, the nurse asked a thousand and one questions about what I wanted to use it for, pretty much like she suspected I was some sort of drug dealer, with a P-lab set up under my desk, or something.

I have to deal with that sort of treatment every time I need to visit my local chemist, but I sure as hell don’t need to put up with it in my place of employment.

Still, it would probably help if didn’t leave suspicious packages lying around.

6.50am.

D:Missus: “You didn’t do the nag-nag dishes last night!”

D-Man: “Nnnnn. What? What are you talking about? I did so.”

D:Missus: “But the bench and stove weren’t wiped down.”

D-Man: “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought dishes were, like, plates and stuff …”

D:Missus: “Well, why didn’t you do the nag-nag bench and nag-nag stove nag-na––What are you doing?”

D-Man: “I’m holding this pillow over my face and smothering myself to death to escape your nagging. Look – I’m growing quite weak. I can already feel the life slipping from me.”

D:Missus: “You’ll probably enjoy the afterlife. You’ll get to hang out with all your heros. Like Lou Reed.”

D-Man: “He’s not fucking dead!”

D:Missus: “Oh. I mean Bob Dylan.”

D-Man: “What? He’s not dead either. Remember, he’s just released that album that went straight to Number 1 on the charts. You know – that album. The one you’re buying me for my birthday. Remember?!”

D:Missus: “Oh. Right. Maybe I meant that Led Zeppelin guy.”

D-Man: “Which one?”

D:Missus: “Not Robert Plant. The other one.”

D-Man: “Jimmy Page?”

D:Missus: ”Yeah, him.”

D-Man: “He’s not fucking dead!”

D:Missus: “What about that guy whose songs you liked? The one who committed suicide. He was married to Courtney Love from Hole. Eddie Vedder?”

D-Man: “Aaarrrgghhh! Kurt Co-fucking-bain! Why do you torment me woman? Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, and, Goodbye!”

D:Missus: “What are you doing now?”

D-Man: “Nothing. I am now dead. Leave me alone.”

Of course, give it a few more years, or so, and most of the aforementioned probably will be dead. Probably not from smothering themselves to death with a pillow, though…