🎶Fever? Yeah I burn forsooth🎶

You may remember, dear and faithful bloggees, that as I set off for my homeland I said I had no idea how I would feel.   Of all the feelings I could have imagined, under the category “No, not that one” the following would be listed:  being run over by a Sherman tank which then reversed; have my head in a vice operated by the Incredible Hulk; having my legs removed, simmered in aspic and then sewn back on by a blind juggler (nice try though) and my chest housing two Tasmanian Devils sometimes loudly purring, other times trying to claw their way up through my throat.

Well that would be a close proximity to how I felt for eight of the eleven days I was away.    Now, I enjoy a good illness along with the next hypochondriac but never, never, have I felt so ill in all my life.   And so, whilst we managed the first weekend’s round of wonderful parties, I spent the rest of the time in a friend’s bed.   The doc had diagnosed flu (the first of my life) and I was highly contagious, so had to save humanity by keeping away from it.    A trick a few politicians could learn!

  The first weekend started with a family lunch at my daughter’s club which was closing the following day.  I sat there surrounded by the people who are my very life’s blood, smiling inanely (probably inwinely ).    Gaz and I have spent so many happy times here since before the grandchildren were born (now in their 20s):  christenings, weddings, the best New Year’s Eve parties in town.  And watched the children mature as their parties became less and less mature.   A real reason to celebrate and remember all the fun times.

And now the club is becoming a school again which is what it used to be.    Fitting.    And hopefully as much fun.

At the party the next evening I saw so many people I hadn’t seen for ages.    It all became very emotional.  But what separates human kind from other kinds?   Emotion.

I kissed, I cuddled, I licked, I stroked.    I started a flu pandemic,  (that has the ring of a very catchy popular song).

Tears formed raging torrents along the streets as we prepared to leave and as some friends gathered to offer a totally unmelodic, but none the less just recognisable, rendition of “So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye”, Gary and I slished and sloshed our way back to our hotel.

And then I relentlessly slipped into a world of delirium.    We’d managed visits to Gary’s mum and dad and were at Carol and Rogers     The coughing started, fortunately waking me from dreams of terrible, red eyed beasts; snakes in my hair, village people between my toes (no, not those Village People), Boris Johnson as Foreign Secretary,    Terrible, terrible visions.   We managed to drag ourselves on to our beloved Whitstable and our one night stay with Jenny and Mark turned into five .    Whilst Gary made Merry Little Forays  to friends’ houses, (“Oh, silly me, I haven’t taken off my nurse’s uniform , it’s been hell looking after her, pure hell.    My poor beloved”), I languished in sweat-soaked sheets, with my demons.    Neither food nor wine (I think that was part of the fever – post partum Prossecco deliriums).    I couldn’t read, watch tv, speak.   Every so often  Gary would come in and squeeze a few drops of water onto my parched lips from a flannel.   Like they do in films     I have a feeling though, it’s  a clean one in films: my water had the distinct aroma of Dove Pure.

Gary played golf on his old Whitstable course.   He  met old golfing buddies, went to the pub with Jenny and Mark and I could hear their merry laughter along the corridor as I lay on my sodden sheets, with a bit of old flannel hanging out of my mouth.

I missed a book club meeting with my gorgeous book worms and worse, missed seeing Viv’s  99 year old mother! (Too dangerous the doc said.    For me).   Oh, and  a hastily reconvened gathering of the Silly Games Players : us and Nicki and John and Steph and Colin.  I might have understood some of the games without copious amounts of Prossecco.   Hell and damnation and many, many buggerrrrrrs.

There was one last reason for us to come home:   Maz’s 70th.

On Saturday morning my energy level had dropped to zero.   Opening my eye lids had been achieved with the aid of a mini hydraulic lift.   I had to be spoon fed water:  “I’m not gonna make it” …   ( no, not die, to the party).   I went for a bath at noon and crawled out at four.   Three hours to dress.   “Let’s go parteee.”

With the help of our friend Sara I made it down the 3 million steps to Maz’s.     I suddenly felt rather shy to enter, as if the illness had not only stripped me of my energy, but all the other things needed by the seasoned party animal.    There was a whoosh as the door opened and out poured warmth and laughter and smiling faces and open hands.   “Jan and Gazzie,” they seemed to say,  “you’re home.   Come on in and be loved”

And so we did.    And so we were.

The journey back to France wasn’t easy but we made it.    I’m still coughing like a very coughy thing but the fever has gone.

La Vie Francaise

Part II.      L’Été

starts here.    Bring it on.