It’s that time of the year again that I love – the run up to Christmas, where the nights draw in, and it starts becoming socially acceptable to eat mince pies for breakfast.
Oh, and I get a hacking cough that lasts for weeks and Belle starts to hate me.
Evenings in our house go something like this.
Me: COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
Me: Sorry. It will stop in a minute – COUGH SPLUTTER – would you like me to go upstairs?
Belle, sternly, having had to pause her Netflix vampire programme: Yes.
See? She hates me.
It soon switches around though when SHE gets a cold and starts her wretched sniffing. (Which you’d think, now she’s 15 years old, would be behind us.) I say sniffing, although often it’s less of a deep, satisfying sniff, and more of an irritating attempt at one.
‘Mum, listen,’ she’ll says, trying unsuccessfully to sniff, ‘I can’t breath.’
‘Yes, thank you, I can hear that.’
‘But listen,’ more sniffing attempts, ‘my nose is all blocked up.’ A bit more sniffing, until my shoulders are suitably tense.
CUE OLBAS NASAL SPRAY. View Post