Poorly

I'm ill. I've had two different diagnoses; both ending in 'itis', and I can't spell either. However, they both mean a sore throat, paroxysms of coughing, aching, intermittent temperature, exhaustion and feeling sorry for myself. The prescription is rest and lots of green vegetables. Ha, I hear you snort, 'fat chance'. The adage, 'who cares for the carer?' springs to mind. After all, there is Sweet-Pea, Honey, Arsey the teenager and Roo, all expecting me to perform like a F1 car. In fairness, Arsey has been less arsey, and even took over cooking yesterday evening, when he saw that there was a real danger that I might end up in the bolognese, and thus spoil his supper. Sweet-Pea and Honey read stories to me last night, and spilt water in the bed, as they fought over who could get me a drink the quickest.
But Roo has been thrown into a panic. He genuinely can't cope with any changes or signs of weakness in me. It threatens his sense of stability, and he's developed a 'cold'. This involves, much sniffing and detailed reports on bogeys. It impresses Honey, who looks on with fascination, muttering 'cool'. Sweet-Pea, keeps patting Roo, and tells him 'we still love you' (scarily perceptive at four years old).
And me? Well I'm off to my imaginary bed. I just can't compete with imaginary bogeys.