I can smell the remenants of cinnamon toast. The warm bread had melting butter glistening on it. I wanted to cut the rectangles into thin fingers, like my Dad used to. A sick day treat--toast fingers and a glass of juice. Instead of being looked after by Mum or Dad, I'm home alone on my sick day. The quiet afternoon sun, a little breeze from a cracked-open window. Drinking lots of fluids, yes, mother, and I've eaten two oranges. I hope the enlivening vitamin C starts working in me soon. Other people talk about eating chicken soup on their sick days, but I don't remember ever doing this. I did feed myself some lunch with the leftover fried rice that Ant made last night. My darling husband has carried the cooking AND cleaning load this weekend. I hope to be able to cook the steak that's thawing for dinner in his honour.
I have been sitting or lying on the couch, and I've fallen asleep there several times. During the real sleeping time, at night, I have been coughing instead of sleeping. Ant can't sleep because of it. "Cough syrup doesn't work," I read today. Well, I'm willing to try. And I keep a big glass of water at the foot of the bed to sip when the hacking begins. Trouble is, I have to sit up and slither down there to get it. (My side of the bed is against the wall--ah, the Hong Kong life.)
(I'm reading Creative Journal Writing by Stephanie Dowrick between naps. Hence the more freely associative style.)