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I don’t like getting ill. Snivelling, coughing, sneezing – basically anything that involves mucus is not my thing.

So since my girlfriend got sick a few days ago I’ve been treating her like a leper. Short of entering the flat in a radioactive suit and gas mask I’ve been as protective of my own health as I could be. I’ve slept in the spare room, am off my tits on Berocca half the time and I’ve spunked a fiver on Vicks’ First Defence, which I’ve been snorting like a city boy on a coke binge. And all because I’m worried about the POSSIBILITY of getting ill. I just don’t want to take time off work when I could be getting out of the house and earning money instead of focusing my energies on trying to breathe.

Of course the problem with such enforced shunning is lack of actual communication between partners. It’s like I’ve locked her away in solitary confinement and the only thing she’s got for company is a bottle of Night Nurse. But that’s the problem you have to cope with when you’ve ended up getting ill. It’s not my fault is it? And is it really worth the risk of me catching the lurgy when a free weekend’s on the horizon? Not bloody likely.

And so to the weekend. It’s Saturday and the start of forty-eight hours together. She thinks she’s better now. I’m not so sure. What if she’s lying? What if she wants to be better but actually isn’t? I don’t want to get ill. What shall I do? Is there a test I can conduct to prove that she’s well enough? She’s even told me on a scale of one to ten she’s a seven, health-wise. THAT’S NOT BETTER!

But there’s nothing I can do. It’s not fair to imprison her in her own personal ‘disease bubble’ for the next two days. I must take the risk. I must enter the danger zone. I’ll probably be sick tomorrow.

Where’s the bloody justice?


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