Does mother know best?

Sometimes we've just got to take Doctor's orders

I had such grand plans for this blog. I was going to write about my summer job. I was fully prepared to write about my expectations, my joy at finally earning money instead of spending it, and then my disappointment as I realised work wasn’t really as great as I thought it would be. All with wit and irony of course.

Then I caught Glandular Fever.

Suddenly my hectic, work hard, play hard schedule had changed to a money-less, action-less couple of weeks.

I can’t say I’m too thrilled about the matter.

Actually, saying I “caught” Glandular Fever is probably the wrong word to use. According to my doctor (after a rather crazy day spent at the local surgery re-registering and whatnot) I’ve had it since Freshers’ Week. Ah, so, when I thought I had just a bad case of Freshers’ Flu? That was this? Ah. Okay.

It suddenly put a lot of things into perspective. My doctor advised me to stay at home, keep my fluids up and have a lot of rest – avoiding strenuous exercise. In my first term, in contrast, I was getting little sleep, drinking a hell of a lot of alcohol on night’s out and while I’m sure no strenuous exercise was being done – I’m not sure I’ve ever done that! – I wasn’t shying away from trying out new sports. On top of that, when I think of the absolute rubbish I “cooked” for myself in those first few weeks, it’s a wonder that I didn’t do any more serious damage to myself.

Which makes my mother’s strict “no staying out late; no drinking; no doing anything interesting at all” regime rather frustrating. If I didn’t’ do any damage last time, surely my body can cope rather well now?

In a way, my disagreement with my mother over this makes me a little sad. Have I reached the time in my life where I’m starting to believe, rightly or wrongly, that mother, does in fact, not know best?

On the other hand, other than the lack of money, not going to work is rather relaxing. As is not having to go running in the rain or whatever else I’d feel obliged to do were I not ill. I get practically everything done for me: hot Ribena brought for me, my favourite foods cooked… my mum actually hit the nail on the head when she acknowledged that now I’ve actually been diagnosed as ill, I could probably do anything and my father wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

But sitting at home all day, however relaxed and privileged I may feel, does get a little boring. As soon as I’m not really allowed to go out, I keep getting invitations. As soon as I’m not really supposed to be having fun, it seems like everyone else is having barrels of the stuff!

There is one saving grace though. This week I’m going away. I’m going to get out of the house and visit a University friend up north. If all this “relaxation” gets me better for that, I don’t care about the momentary sacrifice. I am going to go. And I am going to have fun.

Maybe I’ll listen to mother for that little bit longer.

Although if one more person asks, “Ooh, who have you been kissing?” ill or no, I may just punch them.

Would that count as strenuous exercise?

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