Crispy, like Me.

So as everyone knows, the flu is going around. Clogged everything, tonsils the size of - well, now is just not the time to try to eat chicken nuggets and peas as always, are optional.

Dan got hit first, so I thought I'd try my range of Island flu medicine mixtures on him. Some real, some admirably imaginitive. First up- five tablespoons of salt in lukewarm water for the sore throat. His eyebrows ganged up after his first gargle. It doesn't feel right, he proclaims. I throw my hands up in the air like they tell you to do in that music video.

"You hopeless hopeless man. Here I am, slaving my ass off all day to try to make you feel better, and what do you do? Lay around and watch day time soaps and eating bonne-bonnes! FOOL! GARGLE!." Never before had I seen such a blatant lack of respect for gender-roles. Nevertheless, I assured him that this cure had been handed down through at least seven generations. (BS, of course) And did he know that my grandmother's great uncle had been a slave? From Gambia the Mother Land itself?! Which is neither BS nor relevant, but I thought it added legitimacy. He gave it another go.

"It's not working, I feel nothing!"

"Well, see, that's because I forgot to put the ginger." I added water I'd boiled ginger in.

"Still not helping!"

"Course not. I didn't put any grated pomme-de-terre in it"
(French always adds legitimacy)

"What the fuck is a pommetootah?!" (Luckily, French is Greek to some)

"Nevermind that, you. Lime is an excellent substitute."

His courage failed him after the pepper sauce, poor thing, so I broke out the island-bought and by-father-left cough syrup. Seemed to do the trick. Except it's the kind of medicine that gets you a little less energetic, and a little more philosophical. This turns out to be a new experience for Dan and the Downfall of Being Good for me. Suddenly there are theories littered all over the apartment, and despite his lethargic movements, Dan manages to find himself no further than five meters away from me - at all times - trying to share these theories. There's monologues about gender roles, life after death, and global warming. Even quality bathroom time - a sacred time reserved for a woman and her shower-head alone - is marred by Dan shouting through the key hole, wondering why fries are so crispy on the outside and so soft on the inside "Much like you, Creep, much like you".

I think that this is what people call (instant) karma. Or ka-ching - all boils on what side of the podium you're standing on.