My garden looks like a postcard.
Inside, I am seething.
Hubby and I have been stuck in the house for the last three days and he is really starting to grate on me. You would have thought that a few days alone with the love of my life would be bliss. And I guess it would have been, if Hubby had not contracted a severe case of Man Flu.
The man has become Caesar-like, barking demands from his chair in the living room, from where he sits in his smelly bathrobe, watching reruns of ER. Every sentence is punctuated with a groan. He has a cold, and yet his appearnace suggests he is dying from some as-yet-unknown superbug.
This sketch from Man Stroke Woman seems to articulate my predicament pretty well...
Like a good wife, I have been running around, picking up his snotty tissues and pretending to sympathise with his hypochondria, but I have had enough. I am now upstairs, listening to Annie Lennox, and have told him to look after himself. After all, my bastard employers are insiting that I work from home.
Anyone else stuck? I hope not. Being housebound is a bugger.