Or, to be more accurate, I'm sulking up in the bedroom with a major head injury.
Last week DH had a stomach upset. Yesterday his heel hurt. On both occasions I was concerned, even solicitous, murmured words of comfort and dished out pills and helpful advice.
Today, when pruning in the front garden, I straightened up suddenly to listen to some rubbish words of wisdom DH wished to impart about this art of pruning (of which he knows zero) and thwacked the top of my head straight into a sharp branch. I naturally let out a yell, and clutching the top of my head, stumbled through the back gate into the kitchen where I could suffer not in silence. Didn't think it would be very dignified to roll about moaning in pain on the front lawn - the neighbours wouldn't like it.
BUT I did expect DH to follow me inside and, even if he (as a man) is incapable of administering any kind of real support, possibly ask 'is something wrong?'
Nothing! Zilch! Nada!
Men!
The matter of Angela Rayner's house sale isn't going away.....
Another week, another Tory MP sex scandal!
Nicola Sturgeon’s husband Peter Murrell re-arrested over SNP finances.