My wife
reckoned I couldn't write this column without mentioning that I've had the 'flu
- I don't know what she means. I reckoned I'd avoid mentioning Ruth Richardson.
As I write this I've had a blackout-of-brain for at
least three days - an unusual event in case any wish to comment on that last
statement. So I'm having to wing it a bit this week, since I find that dredging
myself out of bed to write a column has been about the last thing my
beleaguered body desired to do.
I hear that some people have managed to survive
having this strain of 'flu for three weeks - remarkable! I couldn't make mine
last much more than the aforesaid three days before I found myself back on
normal household duties.
In fact, there was a great deal of unsympathetic
imitation of a certain television ad in which a rain-soaked gentleman climbs
the stairs requesting hotties and chicken soup. Unlike this fortunate fellow, I
frequently had to get my own hotties (except when the Aged Parent* lent a hand). This
included one horrendous low point at 5.30 am when the unbearable cold in my
previously mentioned beleaguered body couldn't stand it any more and Demanded
To Be Warm!
The low point of My Illness was the day Ruth
Richardson announced her forthcoming retirement from Parliament. My brain was drifting
in and out of radio's National Programme, and every hour they told me the same
three pieces of news, so that by the end of the day I could recite the material
along with the announcer.
I'd never been aware before just how boringly
repetitious the news is on the radio. Not enough happens in any one day in this
quiet country so I suppose they have to keep repeating it until something
really interesting comes along.
During the morning Kim Hill dissects every word, thought and remembrance
of things past. At midday Geoff Robinson from Morning Report returns - after
the announcer has Read The News Again. Geoff then repeats it
(for the really slow) and discusses it, analyses it, gives us other people
talking about it, and just when you think it's all finished, along comes the
announcer again to Read You The News which is no whit different to the stuff he
read half an hour before. That's for those who might want to check how many times
the man from Federated Farmers stuttered.
Late at night they go through the whole routine
again, though on this particular evening they managed to lose some of their
recorded interviews and played them out of sequence. That added some variety -
of the pinch of salt kind.
Predictably, some said, Ruth Richardson had been
very generous in waiting until the Maritime Bill was on the water. Predictably, some wondered, surely she must have been
just a teeny weeny bit upset about being dumped from the Finance job?
Predictably, Michael Laws (who has to say something about everything - rather
like some columnists), told us it was all sour grapes and she couldn't have
chosen a worse time to leave.
She'll do well, of course, since her name on its
own will sell the new business. I mean, when you've set a country to fiscal
rights, you must be able to do something about the old investments, eh what?
You'll note that they didn't call the business Mr and Mrs Wright's** Financial Consultancy - nah, it just don't taste the
same, somehow.
By Friday I had managed to weep my way through a
mildly amusing video called King Ralph - weeping only because my eyes ran of their
own accord.
And later I coped with reading a bit more of the
1474 pages of A Suitable Boy. I'm nearly halfway there - at page 610 - as a
result of my confinement to quarters. This paperback is so heavy to hold,
however, I found it difficult to avoid toppling over in bed.
The true relief of Mafeking occurred, I'm sure, when a friend gave me a bottle
of whisky - for medicinal purposes. Following an ancient recipe, I downed an
occasional glass of warm milk, with sugar and a wee dram of firewater stirred
in.
Sweet to the
taste, very soothing - and plainly anathema to 'flu bugs.
**Mr and Mrs Wright: reference to Ruth Richardson's married name.
No comments:
Post a Comment