The real piece of good fortune was coming down with the flu on the eve of the angling departure, rather than during – as none of my pals would have noticed anything amiss.
Maybe they’d scratch their chin when I failed to acknowledge dinner, or didn’t protest when they divided up my dry flies among themselves. If there were any signs of life from my flaccid and feverish bedroll – they’d say, “he smelled bad before the trip, Ma’am -how was we to know he wasn’t simply funning us?”
The Bad News is I lived up to my promise, spending the last four days in a cataclysmic meltdown that has me in the same clothing, absent cigars, and strong coffee – and facing early demise as She (formerly banished as it was a guy only fishing trip) is racing to my door to put an end to my sufferings…
… with a large can of Woop-ass.
There will be no Angels of Mercy daubing my feverish cheeks on the morrow, no fluffing of too-soft pillows, no replenishing of the Sacred Baked Goods, there will only be those gals already angry – and thoseĀ speechless in fury at the state of Her house.
I’ll be Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock’s Rear Window – helpless and struggling from my wheelchair – as (Ms.) Raymond Burr attempts to unscrew my head like a champagne cork before setting the garden hose on whatever stayed attached.
Sorry to hear of your illness. Hope you feel better soon.
………..maybe, but Jimmy had Princess Grace to fend off Ms Burr. Feel better.
I hate the large cans! Heck, even the small can is almost unbearable. Better you than me is all I can say.
I feel sorry for your misery. As they say, expect the best but prepare for the worst. Things will get better.
nothing worse than being sick especially when you have something on that you were looking forward to.