Sicko

Reto might have swine flu. That's a home diagnosis, but he's kind of flu-ey, quite feverish (although it's hard to tell how much because our thermometer seems to be pathetic, but he's reliably about 2.5 degrees warmer than me) and spends all his time loafing around in bed, overdressed and complaining about being cold. Fortunately my doctor went a bit hysterical about how he thought it was a good idea for me to have the vaccination (unlike the previous time I asked him about it, which was 6 weeks or so before, when he suggested it was a bit of a waste of time. I take the fact that he changed his mind as a good thing) and so I did have it a few weeks ago. I'd better not get sick.

Update: he seems to be much better today. His temperature is now the same as mine and his conversation is much better than it has been for days.

Serious

Yesterday I saw a blurb stuck on a tram window about how not to get swine flu (or any sort of flu, I suppose, but I guess swine flu was what inspired it), an ad on telly about how not to get (swine) flu, and a 12-step set of instructions in a museum toilet on how to wash my hands thoroughly.

Other than that I had a delightful day that was in no way blighted by the spectre of disease and death. We went to the Tinguely museum in Basel (which was sort of bad timing because it's mostly closed at the moment, preparing for new exhibitions which are opening next week. Still better that going to see the Van Gogh exhibition at the Kunstmuseum, though, because oh my goodness there was a massive ticket queue there both times we went past. Reto and I saw the exhibition on the easter weekend, which you would think would be a moronic time to go to something like that, and it was pretty crowded when we were there, but apparently the last weeks before it closes are much worse.), the high point of which was a toss up between this (the Meta-Harmonie 2, a giganto machine with all sorts of drums and keyboards and cymbals attached which, unsurprisingly, makes a bit of a racket when you press the "go" button and not in a delightfully musical way, either, in case you were getting your hopes up. More in a random banging of drums way) and lunch, which was veal with proscuitto and parmesan cheese and a red wine risotto, and although in general I completely disapprove of the mixing of meat (as in two or more types at once), this was ridiculously delicious. And the salad was great, and the coffee was great, and the restaurant itself was also charming. And then we went for a pleasant stroll along the river in the afternoon sun and watched children and dogs and the occasional adult frolicking in the water, and then we almost froze to death in our bed overnight when the temperature suddenly dropped about 45 degrees (possible exaggeration. I was forced to close the window, though, which I normally never ever do). So that was mostly delightful.

Convalescent Kitty

Happy recuperating, Dad.

And just so that no one gets the wrong idea, as far as I know my father is not wearing one of these collars. As far as I know he has no desire to lick any wounds he might have. Actually, as far as I know he doesn't even have any wounds.

Ouch

We have really, really sharp kitchen knives. I don't know how many times I have sliced the end of my thumb off while making dinner since I got here, but suffice to say that it is a lot, to the point that I don't think my thumb will ever again be the shape nature intended.

Last night was the latest in my rampage of self destruction. I was slicing onions (risotto, and the result was delicious, if slightly blood-soaked) but I got carried away and sliced some thumb too. Blood went everywhere. It was on the table, on the onions, in the sink, on the floor, drenching tissues. Everywhere but inside my thumb, really. It was all a bit reminiscent of the anime bit in the middle of Kill Bill (volume 1. It was on telly here last week), although with less death and paedophilia. Reto arrived home to find the whole apartment doused in blood. Perhaps it's time to get some blunter knives. Or some chain-mail gloves.

It's Like Living In Lucas Heights

It's raining today, so we sat around for ages wondering what we could do that didn't involve being rained on. As it turns out, when Reto moved to Aarau he was given an envelope full of junk (including local information and free tickets to things and so on) by the local council. We went through it all, looking for fun things that might be free, and I pounced when I found a piece of paper with something written on it in english (it's nice to be able to understand things, frankly, without having to stare at words for ages and then dredge the silty lake that is my memory, only to come up with ... well, silt, and maybe some dead fish). Anyway, on this piece of paper was information about the potassium iodide tablets that the local council had kindly provided, and how it is essential to keep them around in case the local nuclear power plant (which is about 10 kilometres away) has some kind of disaster. Apparently if there is a "serious nuclear power plant accident where the safety tank fails" (whatever that means), our only hope of survival, or something like that*, is to take these potassium iodide tablets. But since I am not really living here, I didn't get any! Which means Reto lives but I get a radioactive thyroid and die**! That doesn't seem very fair! (incidentally, I could just go to the chemist and buy some more tablets, but where's the possibility of complaining then? Although I'm sure that even if I was well stocked with life-saving potassium iodide tablets, I would still find things to whinge about in the event of a local nuclear disaster)



* Apparently if this nuclear disaster happens, the potassium iodide will stop radioactive iodine from being absorbed by your thyroid gland. If you don't take the tablets, your newly radioactive thyroid will presumably make you turn into a teenage mutant ninja turtle or spiderman or something, and then you'll die. No doubt hideously.

** Or get turned into spiderman/a teenage mutant ninja turtle. Or possibly a twenty-something mutant ninja turtle, as long as it happens relatively soon.

Catch Of The Day

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, my sunburn is receding and I am sick.

Somehow, it seems, all the (semi-)relentless holidaying I have done for the last 2 weeks has left me weak and vulnerable, and now I am getting my revolting revenge on Reto for making me put up with his recent-ish bout of incessant coughing and spluttering and nose-blowing. Yes, I have a cold, and now I am the one creating seas of snotty tissues, I am the one waking up in the night to cough and snort and whinge, I am the one who lolls in bed all day and is waited on hand and foot.

Possibly surprisingly, Reto is doing quite a good job of the nurse-maiding. He came home especially at lunch time yesterday to drop off an emergency delivery of Vicks, he made chicken noodle soup last night (admittedly from a packet, but whatever), he has been force-feeding me oranges, and aside from the odd bout of yawning, he hardly complains at all about the constant interruptions to his sleep that come from me waking up every half hour or so to blow my nose and cough up phlegm. What a sweetheart.

Once A Psycho, Now A Sicko

If the army had rented Reto from me for these last 3 weeks, they would not have got their deposit back. Three weeks ago we had a fond farewell at Zürich train station and my boyfriend was looking all shiny and healthy and clean-shaven (albeit kind of annoyed and laden down with mountains of useless army junk). When he dragged himself home on Friday night he was still annoyed and burdened with crap, but also bedraggled, stubbly and sick, sick, sick. Frankly, these are changes I could have done without (although I am a fan of the unshaven messy look. Tidy people always make me feel a bit inadequate).

Anyway, since Friday things have degenerated. I have spent the last four days listening to him cough, sneeze, blow his nose, cough, complain, snore, hack up big gross globs of phlegm and slurp at his tea relentlessly, at all hours of the day and night. All the time. You have no idea of the sleep I have missed out on or of the oceans of snotty tissues I have had to wade through.

We had garlic soup for dinner last night. It was as bad as it sounds, but at least if it doesn't exert its therapeutic power and make him better and stop me from getting sick, it should at least keep us both safe from vampires.