Get ya knickers off.

Day three and I remain without a voice. I finally gave in yesterday and went to the clinic. I had a temp of 39, a throat that felt like it was coated in glue and the cough was just starting to gain momentum. The doctor placed her tongue depressor in my mouth, took two steps back, screwed up her nose and then threw the tongue depressor towards the bin. I wrote her notes on a piece of paper, she wrote notes back – until I reminded her that I could still hear perfectly well. As I left the doctor’s office I sent G a text.

“I have laryngitis. Not to speak at all. 3 days of antibiotics, it’s bacterial. I have 6 different forms of medication. Need lots of fluid. On my way home”

His reply?

“Can you still bonk?”

I promise you, I could have a mixture of leprosy and the pox and my husband would still wander by me in the kitchen, pinch me on the bum and say with a wink “I’ll be looking for you a little bit later on tonight”. There have been many times in this scenario that I have been nine months pregnant, had baby vomit on my shoulder or dressed in pajamas with last nights make-up half way down my face.

None of this deters him.

Mostly, I pretend that these comments annoy me, but to be honest, it’s safe to say I quietly enjoy them. Particularly when life is at its height of ridiculousness, you know, when the children are arguing and there’s no milk in the fridge and then you discover the dog has pee’d on the carpet. You have to have a bit of a giggle somewhere.

The reason I’m telling you this is for a little background. G loves to cook. Every weekend G will whip up something that not only tastes but also looks amazing. The grunt work (no pun intended) during the week, you know the boring as bat shit stuff (schnitzels, spaghetti and casseroles), remains my domain – but come the weekend, G will usually take a trip to the markets and throw something delicious together.

Along with each meal. Will come the inevitable question from G. His own little voting system. With a twinkle in his eye he’ll ask;

“So, the meal. What do you think? Is it a get your knickers off dinner? Or was it just okay”

He became so impressed with his voting system at one stage he contemplated putting together his own men’s cookbook. He would call it “This’ll get her knickers off” and of course it would be full of his own well researched recipes.

This weekend it was creme brûlée.

For a girl with a sore throat he couldn’t have done any better. I voted it a definite “Get ya knickers off meal”. Unfortunately for G, the antihistamine had a different idea. I’d passed out by 8pm.

What do you think? Is the creme brûlée “get ya knickers off” worthy?

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