Dare I drink?
1436 Words
“How are you feeling now?” Emily asks as we both sit down on her sofa. I have my freshly made cuppa in one hand, and my phone in the other. I sigh deeply, “to be honest, I’m still feeling really rubbish – I’m so over this virus shite now” I reply, carefully shuffling my bum back and getting myself comfy. Emily has the most amazing sofa I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting my arse on – it’s so comfy, it’s like a giant, fabric hug. It also cost her a mini fortune though; I’m pretty sure she spent a year paying more a month on her 3 piece suite than what me and Gaz do on our rent. But as she said to me at the time – if you want quality, you pay quality prices. And to be fair to her – it is top quality. Its only recently though that she’s allowed people to sit on it with any sort of drink in their hand to be anywhere near either the chairs or the sofa, let alone sit on them – I actually feel quite honoured that I didn’t get a warning to be careful with my cuppa before I placed my butt down.
I do recall there was a close call new years’ eve when a drunken Molly tripped over the rug and nearly chucked a full glass of red wine over the sofa and a cushion. Luckily, she managed to stay on her feet, and the resulting spill was just a few drops on the rug, which Emily has no emotional attachment to whatever.
She looks at me with sympathy “well, I don’t mean to be a b***h, but you still look off it” she replies, offering me a small, half sympathetic, half sarcastic smile. I pull a face as I blow on my drink in response, “yeah, I know. I’ve given up trying to be honest– my foundation costs a small fortune and I’m sick of wasting it when all I do is sweat the bloody thing off” I laugh feebly. Emily bursts out laughing, stopping suddenly as she remembers she has a drink in her hand, and her precious sofa under her backside. She takes a deep breath as she watches the fluid in the cup stop slushing around, dangerously threatening to overflow and looks at me with a glint in her eye, “fair enough babe, you look like s**t if you want to” she mocks as she brings her cup to her lips and takes a delicate sip.
It’s now been nearly 3 weeks of me feeling ill. I felt a bit better for a few days just after the 2 week mark – I had managed work for a few days but the 9hr shifts on my feet had obviously tipped my little self over the edge, and my muscles gave up trying to power through, my head started to pound and before I knew it, I had fainted in the dining room of the care home I have been working at as a support worker for the last 5 months. I came around to a surprised and concerned crowd of people who were all barking different titbits of advice on how to make myself feel better, mixed with questions of how was I feeling and did I know what happened. (Also – I felt like s**t and I had no idea what happened).
I obviously got sent home to recover, and I was granted a week sickness period due to the nature of the job. We work with vulnerable people, some of which have weakened immune systems, so anything contagious can cause serious health implications for them.
In one respect, I’m glad that they know it wasn’t just a severe hangover that caused me to call in sick the week before...however on the other hand, I’m still feeling ill and I’m getting pretty sick of it.
“Is it norovirus?” Emily asks, dragging my brain back to the present. I blink in confusion and look at her for a second, taking in the words she had just said to me. “Erm, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea. But it’s f*****g horrible.” I reply. I’m still feeling sorry for myself about it – the actual vomiting has eased a lot but the annoying churning stomach, headache and blocked sinuses, fever and all over aching muscles that seem to follow most viruses are still giving it their best shot to kill me off slowly.
We spend the next hour idly chatting about life – about how Emily is getting bored of work and wants a new job, how James has just signed an agreement to do even more overtime at work (I wasn’t aware that was even possible, the crazy bugger does nearly 50 hours a week) and how pissed off Emily was about it. “It wasn’t that he’d agreed to do it, it was more that he hadn’t even mentioned it to me before accepting it that’s upset me” she said, looking into her now empty cup with a sad expression as she spoke. I genuinely feel sorry for her – she hardly sees him as it is, let alone agreeing to an extra 5 hrs a week overtime. I know that they want to keep their comfortable, somewhat lavish lifestyle up, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s really worth the sacrifices they make when I look at how down Emily gets.
I LOVE Friday nights when it’s my weekend off – it means that Gaz and I get to spend some quality time together. Currently, we both finished work just over 2 hours ago, the dogs have had a quick walk and we’ve both had a shower to freshen up and got changed into our comfy clothes. That’s it, were settled for the night and no-one is going to disturb or. Or they die. Due to me not being well, this Friday night is a night in with home cooked food and a film snuggled on the sofa.
“Would you like a glass of wine with dinner baby?” I hear Gaz call from the kitchen as I set the table. I pause what I’m doing, fork in hand and think. My stomach is still churning on and off, but it’s mostly settled and I’m not sure if I want to do anything to upset it again.
Putting the cutlery down in a heap on the table, I wander into the kitchen to see Gaz pouring himself a glass of Bud from the fridge. “I’m not sure to be honest baby, this is the first time in what feels like forever that I feel pretty much fully normal, and I don’t know if I want to risk ruining it” I half laugh, half fret. He looks up at me as he finishes pouring, and I raise an eyebrow as I note that his barmen skills are well and truly forgotten, given that the pint in the glass has more head than the average European s*x worker.
“Don’t judge me” he says critically as he follows my stare to his glass and notices the expression on my face. I hold my hands up in surrender as I try not to laugh by clamping my lips together.
“We have a bottle of that Echo Falls white wine you love and some lemonade in the fridge, I can make you a spritzer if you like?” he offers, picking up his glass and looking at it disapprovingly.
I exaggerate a loud sigh, “are you sure?” I ask, smiling proudly at my own joke. He looks at me and scowls. “I’m sure I can cope with mixing some wine and lemonade in a glass” he replies, trying his best not to smile in response.
“If you think you can manage it, by all means c***k on” I say in a sweet tone, smiling, turning around and heading back into the dogs room to finish setting the table.
- Writer
