Lucozade is sick-bed time. It's sticky orange rings on the tray. It's visits upstairs and then being abandoned for hours on end. It's chicken-pox itch and calamine lotion. It's a fizz on your tongue and laying your head back exhausted on the grubby pillow. It's soldiers of toast with butter. It's someone a bit bothered about you. Perhaps you won't last the night. It's something to sip when you are on your last sips. When you can't even swallow a peeled grape. It's being in your parents' bed in the daytime, curtains closed and a box of Fuzzy Felt untidy on the eiderdown. You don't have the strength to put the lid back on. It's an open volume of Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopaedia weighing down your legs with whales and steam trains and hot air balloons. If they give you Lucozade and Fuzzy Felt and Arthur Mee and then go downstairs and leave you, they think you are going to die.
No comments:
Post a Comment