Happy New Year from the Frog chorus!

That's the frog-in-the-throat chorus, of course.

The eve of 2013 saw me laying in stocks of various medications, as my voice slowly dwindled to a husky wheeze. The woman in the local Pharmacie seemed miffed that I hadn’t at the very least made a doctor’s appointment. She seemed to be taking it quite personally that I deemed it unnecessary. She rallied a bit when I left the choice of appropriate over-the-counter medicines to her, and I think she might have proposed marriage when I asked her for a throat spray to go with the tablets she’d chosen for me.  Over the course of the New Year’s opening days, the husky wheeze was joined by a blocked nose. In an interesting twist, every time I blew my nose, somewhere in the inner pipework a sort of air lock developed, causing a sound not dissimilar to that made by a school of dolphins to start up inside my head. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to have a cold, as I’ve been mercifully  spared the experience for about three years.

Luckily (no, really!)  I’d popped off to France to celebrate the New Year with some friends, so, once they had left, I was able to indulge my germs and lie on the sofa like a Victorian consumptive, with an industrial-sized box of tissues within easy reach. No-one had to witness my suffering, and I didn’t have to make futile attempts to cover my red, peeling nose, or disguise the bags under my eyes.

Communication with the world at large was almost confined to text messages. TH retired hurt after calling for advice on how to cook some meatballs and trying to make sense of my wheezing and heavy breathing as I gasped out the instructions. After that, a daily “Are you feeling any better?” text seemed to be easier.  I was invited to various lunches and dinners by concerned friends, just to keep my spirits up..have they never heard that you should starve a cold? And you should definitely starve a woman who has had to resort to leaving the country to get away from the Christmas leftovers! They kept telling me how well I looked for someone who sounded as though their vocal chords had been stolen and replaced with some odd nuts and bolts in a biscuit tin. I think they were trying to be kind, but a quick look in the mirror soon revealed the dreadful truth. There were healthier-looking people than me dancing in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video.

On the eve of my return, I had to pop down to the village Co-op for some supplies. Upon hearing my (much-improved) voice, the lady behind the counter informed me that since the New Year reopening, the vast majority of her customers either had voices like mine, or were calling in to stock up on those well-known staples that no self-respecting French family with a bout of gastro should be without: Coca-cola, rice and carrots. I wasn’t too sure about the carrots, but she was very clear that carrots played a vital role.

A tiny positive aspect was that, when I arrived at the airport for the return journey, I wasn’t worrying about just how long it might be after my return before I succumbed. I wasn’t trying to cover my mouth/nose/eyes as all around me sniffled and wheezed in the queue, on the plane and in the customs hall.  I am wearing my immunity to further infection like Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. 

My voice has almost returned. Which is just as well, as I’ve started having to use it for work again. I’ve tried teaching English through the medium of mime, and it’s not a method I’d recommend.

I hope your New Year was germ free, and that we can all have a healthy 2013! If, however, you feel you may be coming down with a sore throat, I can supply some excellent medication for the cost of an SAE. You know how it is in France: I’ve got plenty to go round!

The Miraculous Expanding Jumper

The move from Nowhere-on-Thames to Nowhere-in-France went remarkably smoothly, all things considered. Probably the only tricky part was cramming all my thermal clothing – plus a newly-acquired electric blanket - into a tiny bag to beat the budget-airline baggage restrictions. This involved wearing a LOT of clothes, but the temperature was so low on my day of departure that it wasn’t a real hardship. The real hardship would have been getting up if I’d fallen over. I was wearing so many clothes that I would probably still be lying on the floor of Stansted airport departures, waiting for someone to either take pity on me or mow me down with one of those little electric buggy things, had gravity claimed me and dragged me to the floor.

There is something about managing to board a Ryanair flight with all the stuff you packed in your hand luggage that’s immensely satisfying. I was a bit concerned, and had practised, in my mind, exactly how I would strap the electric blanket to my body in the event that I was stopped and told that my hand luggage exceeded regulation dimensions. Frankly, I don’t know why I ever worry. I’ve flown to the other side of the globe for a fortnight with hand luggage, so visiting a house where I’ve already got plenty of clothes for a week is no problem. Except, of course, when the outside temperature has dropped to “arctic” and you’re having to call your thickest woollies into service. 

What I failed to factor into my plans, however, was the Big Thaw and the attendant massive increase in temperature which meant that I had no need to travel back dressed as if for a week in Siberia. This posed a problem, as my big jumper alone filled up all the space which had been occupied on the outbound leg by the electric blanket I was leaving in France. Not only that, but the jumper refused to pack flat. This, despite the use of one of those special plastic bags which allow one to expel all the air and thus condense one’s clothes into a sort of brick.

I eventually managed to cram the thick jumper into my bag, squeezed into a brick in the plastic bag. Sadly, the plastic bag began, only part way to the aircraft, to show distinct signs of no longer wishing to fulfil its role. This meant that as I edged forward in the boarding queue, my sweater and all the other clothes in my bag took it upon themselves to start spontaneously expanding….

I managed to reach the aircraft without drawing too much attention to myself, despite the fact that I was carrying a piece of hand luggage which seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and was discernibly growing as if someone was using a bicycle pump on it. I shoved it quickly into the overhead locker, and was pleased that the person who opened the locker on landing wasn’t knocked to the ground as my jumper and other items of clothing broke free from their plastic prison and resumed their normal shape and size before the eyes of the rest of the unsuspecting passengers.

Phew!

Oh yes…I bet you’re wondering how I fared in the cold-weather-one-upmanship competition? Well, it was minus 12^o  for a couple of nights, and below freezing for a day or so, but once I’d lit enough fires, I hardly noticed the cold. However, my trip was not without incident. I shall shortly bring you tales of broken walls, broken fences and a breakdown in international relations..