Why I Have an Incandescent Love of Tea Cosies

Post CLIV

Here’s the story of equality, hypochondria, and beans.

Why is it when you’re not well, you end up covered in Weetabix and mousse? Nothing goes right. Every five minutes, something goes wrong. Then the following five minutes, something else goes wrong. And so on, and so on, and so on. And most of the time, you can’t figure out why. There I was, bowl of Weetabix on the arm of the sofa, watching the telly. And then, just by sudden chance, the bowl falls off the sofa arm. Covering me in Weetabix. I didn’t knock it. It just fell off. Committed cereal suicide. Cut to six hours later, after dinner, enjoying a chocolate mousse. I momentarily rested it on my stomach, I was slouching, to grab my drink. And then that falls over. Mousse suicide, if you will. I was mortified. I was now covered in a strange concoction of wheat and chocolate. It was the last thing I needed, full of cold. In summer. Somehow. I didn’t even have a clean pair of trousers to put on as I’d used my only clean pair earlier in the day. So I had to sit in chocolate pants for most of the week. Honestly, why is it when you’re not well, nothing goes right? Bloody fate. I’d like to cover him in chocolate and Weetabix. See how he likes it.

Of course, I’m presuming fate is a dude. For the sake of equality, it could easily be a woman, they’re great at mental torture. Oh man, I’ve tipped the equality scale too far the other way. I mean, it probably is a man because all men are dicks. Unless they’re Italian, because we’re charming. Oh damn, too far the other way. I’m not saying a woman couldn’t be fate. I mean, women are lovely, they have many great features. Erm, like, eyes, not boobs, I mean, I wasn’t thinking of boobs, I am now, but, but I wasn’t before. Obviously, men can have great boobs, too, but that’s not to say it’s not a great feature of both genders. And you see, I don’t see gender, per se, and, erm, oh man, is it hot in here? What I’m saying is, I don’t see ‘sex’, unless I’m in the local park, am I right guys? Oh, God, equality, erm, well, yeah, there are plenty of women there, too – ARRRRGH! THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!

And that’s why I love tea cosies.

It’s probably hot in here because I’m dying. Not literally, not that you had batted an eyelid at that alarmist statement, more of a metaphorical death. But I don’t like metaphors, so forget everything you’ve just read. My horrific brush with illness has continued into week, erm, four, five, I lost track, which isn’t a good sign when you’re not well. When you forget the last time you were of good health. Really chesty cough and a sniffle. I don’t like that word, do you? Sniffle. It’s far too cute for what it is. Sniffle. The act of constantly sucking up mucus into one’s upper nose region. Like, ew. The sinus buster. The nose ripper. The mucus of doom. I could keep going all day with better alternatives. But I’ll stop now. The olfactory bulb dimmer. Okay, I’ll really stop now.

It’s a full bunged up, full Dutch clog of a blockage. Oozing mucus dribbling down my face like lava dribbling down the buttock crease of the devil. Sorry, I really should’ve started this post with, ‘I hope you’re not eating’. Ah. To be honest, reading this, there isn’t a lot you should be doing, because it’ll probably put you off most things. So, because I didn’t say it, I guess now is as a good a time as any. I hope you’re not eating. Put down the hotdog. Or, if you’re doing something else, having sex for example, same message. Ahem…

Mother recommended antibiotics and a chest x-ray to make sure it’s not something serious. Brother suggested that too. And probably most doctors, would. I’m not going to the doctors. You will not get me into a doctors or a hospital. I don’t care if I’ve just had my leg blown off. ‘Tis but a scratch. You see, if it’s something serious, I’ll spend my few remaining days in a tizzy and I won’t sleep or have any fun because I know the grim reaper is out to reap. And steal my wallet. And shoes. Everyone’s out to steal my shoes. But if I don’t know, I can live in blissful ignorance and die as I lived. That’s how I want to go. I’m not a daredevil. I’d spend my remaining days crying, not jumping out of airplanes. Crying is far more logical, don’t you think? For me, it’s as exactly the same as a burglar stealing your bike and the first thing you think to do is paint your shed. Heck, it’s exactly the same as a burglar stealing your shed and the first thing you decide to do is finally start painting your shed. EVEN THOUGH YOU DON’T HAVE A SHED MAKING YOUR ACTIVITY LITTLE MORE THAN MIME PAINTING!

And that’s why I love tea cosies.

So no, knowing my luck, I’m dying of an incurable nightmare so I’d rather live a life of quiet ignorance. Don’t bother lecturing me, half my brain has already done that. The result? The other half beat it to death with a wombat. The wombat was fine. Just in case the RSPCA are reading. I mean, for God’s sake, it was their idea.

No, I’m not after sympathy. After Eights would be useless anyway as I can’t smell. A hug would infect you. And a card, well, who likes cards? I never get any. And you know what, readers, I’ve given up trying to pander to people to get me to send me any. If people don’t want to, sod them. So there. Oh yes, I’m not joking. By the way, my birthday is in about six weeks. I’ll just put that out there. For no reason whatsoever. Cough, hint, cough.

Of course, I’d like you to know that I am a blithering hypochondriac. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I always make it. Until the day I don’t make it, then I don’t always make it. I suppose ‘I always make it’ is more of a metaphor, but I don’t like metaphors, so forget everything you’ve just read. Do the opposite of everything I do, I am no role model, would be my message. My motto in life. I mean, I don’t really have one, but it’s not bad. Don’t listen to me. There. That’s my life motto. I once punched a solid wooden wardrobe door and that hurt like hell. So don’t do that. The motto therefore holds up quite well. In retrospect, it’s actually fairly obvious one shouldn’t beat up a solid chunk of wood. What? It started it…

So yes, I am fairly miserable at the moment but trying to keep my spirits up. Scottish whisky, if we’re naming the precise spirits northern Englander’s use to keep up. I’ve actually started pouring Lemsip sachets into my hot whisky and lemonade treatment. You know, a mix of ‘grandma knows best with her 60%+ whisky cocktail’ and a mix of ‘scientifically proven to reduce the effects of cold’ remedy. I tell you, the only reason they don’t put alcohol in Lemsip’s is that children drink them. So what? Let children drink booze. French kids have three glasses of wine a day and they’re fantastic. Well, okay, they’re French, they’ll never be fantastic, but healthy, healthy was what I was shooting for. But again, I’m not asking for sympathy. Not that I deserve it. It’s my own fault I’m not better, what with not seeking medical help. Although if you’d like to send me my big chocolate birthday cake a few weeks early, it may speed up my recovery. Just a thought. I’ll just put that out there.

Chocolate is a wonderful healer. Why else must women eat copious amounts of chocolate ice cream after a break up? Because it makes you feel better. And fat, but that’s just a psychological reflection of one’s self-worth through a thinly veiled disguised wall of the depressive monotony of tearful melancholy. What? I’m trying to offer a constructive argument, or would you rather me go back to being just plain useless? I can make an effort. Heck, I shall from now on. From now on, I shalt make the effort to get up before 12. Starting next week. Terms and conditions apply.

Of course, since this is the equality edition, there is the distinct possibility, and I don’t want to depress you and I shan’t, I’ll be as gentle as a leaf, that you’re boyfriend may be shallow and left you because he thought you were fat therefore making your self-conscious weight issue ice-cream binge actually somewhat worth it. Not because you are fat but because your shallow bastard of a boyfriend has put that thought into your head. Why am I in a hole? It’s awful dark down here…

I’ll give up giving advice. Be who you are. If you’re large or thin, you’re beautiful. If you wear platform shoes or clogs, you’re beautiful. Unless you wear sandals with socks, then you’re just an idiot. If you’re struggling to find cohesion in a blog post or wondering how it’ll end, you’re beautiful. If you’re human, you’re beautiful. No matter how sick you are, no matter how many things go wrong, no matter how many times you sneeze over your dinner, you’re beautiful. Although if you sneeze over someone else’s dinner, screw beauty and run.

Yes, I may look and feel like shit, but I don’t care. Because if these last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that you should wake up each morning full of beans. Because that’s the only way I’ve gotten through these last ten years of illness and memory loss. I might be the world’s worst role model, but always, always wake up with fight in your heart.

And never, aged 16, wake up only to find yourself three hours later ‘permanently borrowing’ a massive No Smoking sign from a failed office business and running down a major street with it as fast as you can, looking like a complete lunatic. Something I never did. Oh no, not at all…

And that, dear readers, is why I love tea cosies.

American travel writer, humorist and former magazine editor, Harry Caskie Stinnett (1911-1998), once said: “The trouble with being a hypochondriac these days is that antibiotics have cured all the good diseases.”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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