Week 1- Piranha Boy

This week I have deep throated a cotton bud at least twenty times in the hope that the shakes, the shivers and the headache from hell are Covid related and not simply my body withdrawing from the Booze cruise I have been sailing on with more vigour than Ellen MacArthur. 

Much to my horror, with the stroke of one red line, my suspicions are confirmed. No fucking virus to give me sympathy from my fellow household.  No I am simply detoxing and I feel like shite.  I stumble back to bed and face plant the pillow letting out a rather whale like groan as my head processes the throbbing symptoms unfolding.

Now in normal marriages (well in the films at least) a Husband would dutifully stand by his Woman whilst she sweated profusely, mopping her brow tentatively with a moistened face cloth....................Well not in my house it seems as I married a Man who in his natural habitat  displays distinctive Piranha-esk like qualities.  He is quick to react to noise from comatose wife that reminds him that it could possibly be feeding time.

As I thrash about the duvet, sighing and groaning,  he instinctively identifies that this behaviour indicates a wounded/dying animal struggling to survive and this could be a potential meal for Piranha Boy. Time for the frenzied verbal attack.

'Right lazy bitch up and out. You've got work to do', I have ordered a skip, and you have one week to fill it.  

Every Piranha knows his mates weaknesses and a skip in the Jones household is my idea of Heaven.  'Fuck, Fuck, Fuck Off' I shout across the room, but in minutes the Piranha's tactical enticements have worked and I am up, dressed ready to embrace my inner Stig of the Dump.

I glance at the Paracetamol for a nanosecond, but today it resembles a rather wimpish substitute, instead I decide Detoxing requires the big Guns, today is a job for the big boys and I reach for The Flu plus.

We decide to start with the Kitchen which ironically, as I clear cupboard after cupboard became The Confessional Kitchen,  a rather good name for a Z lister TV game I thought to myself.  

In each Cupboard we cleared there was a half opened bottle of red, white or rose strategically hidden at the back, in tins or under baking trays.  'What the Fuck is this all about?' Rob asked, sounding more and more like Father Cahill from St Vincent's after listening to our Choir's  rendition of Sister Act.

'Erm, Um, errrrrrr,  they are for cooking' I replied.

'Bollocks' he said, name one dish you put Rose in??

Fuck I was busted after two sentences, delay in a fast response is tantamount to lying so I gave up the pretence.

Okay, you know when we share a bottle together at Dinner, well Irene thinks you top your glass more than mine, so they are the top up bottles when you leave the room, the evening the odds bottles, the secret stashes that make me feel ever so Bridget Jones like.  The problem is with Irene and her secret AML power,  I can never find the fuckers again.  

Rob lets out a laugh, you certainly have the Bridget Jones knickers soft arse, he laughs and together we turn the skip into a supersized recycling bin.  

Mental note to self, next time we renew our vows:

For sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for hammered and for sober.  I do.