Saturday, 2 October 2010
I asked DH what was in the cold remedy and he starts digging in the bin for the packet.
'Er - Paracetamol.'
'You do know I am allergic to paracetamol don't you?'
'I forgot to look.'
'I hate you. I'm going to itch and burn for the next two hours.'
'Sorry - go and have a bath to cool your skin down and would you like your tea in bed?'
'That's the least you can do. You can also battle with the Mums and kids at Sainsburys tomorrow - alone. And I am going to write all day because I can't do it now - to sit with a hot laptop on my thighs would kill me in this state. There'll be no ironing, no housework, no conversation - got it?'
'Er-OK. You have gone ever so red, and your breathing is rapid too - but you always do that when you're pissed.'
'Oh, shut up, and get that tea. I'll be in the bath.'
'Shall I get you one of those warning bracelets in case you get run over in the street?'
'Sorry,' his plaintive little moan follows me as I storm out.
This has happened four times in the last year, and the last three were because DH gave me brand-name painkillers which neither of us realised contained paracetamol. Each time it happens, the reaction is worse and lasts longer.
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