Talking about every illness in the book

HOME, 4pm. I am up a step ladder, re-painting the sitting-room ceiling.

The first of four ceilings we are to re-paint over the Easter break — and having to explain the difference between the common cold and pneumonia to my daughter; she lies below me on the sofa, striking a consumptive pose, such as the one Elizabeth Barrett Browning might have struck while dying in her husband’s arms.

If I was to paint a portrait of my daughter now, I consider, rolling Dulux back and forth with aching arms, I’d call the portrait simply, “Lassitude.”

“You have upper-respiratory congestion, and sneezing,” I say, rolling, rolling, “and both afflictions are compatible with holding a paintbrush.”

“I think I’m getting a sore throat,” she rasps, pressing “Pause” on a Come Dine with Me repeat.

“But no fever,” I say, stepping off the ladder, “which means you have a cold, not flu. Therefore you do not have pneumonia. Pneumonia is a rare complication of serious flu, more common in the elderly.”

“Can you pass me that glass of water,” she says, pressing “Play” and really, I think, Elizabeth Barrett Browning could not have spoken more feebly on her death-bed.

“Also,” I say, pointing my roller at a crumb-strewn plate, “with pneumonia, you wouldn’t be able to eat three slices of peanut-buttered toast as you have just done.”

“I just want to lie here,” she croaks, “and be ill in peace.”

“Right you are Elizabeth,” I say.

“Who’s Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth Barrett-Browning. Invalid poet. Died from TB.”

“What’s TB?”

“Tuberculosis: a proper illness with a proper name.”

5pm. I am refilling my paint tray when my husband returns from tennis with a long face. “You’re back early,” I say, “the paintbrush is over there.”

“I think I’ve torn my Achilles,” he says, “either that or a calf-muscle.”

“What does that mean?” I say, placing roller in tray and sitting down in front of my lap-top.

“For who?” he says, with a look that is full-up to the top with the history of us, “you or me?”

He limps to a chair and sits down. “I need to ice it,” he says, putting his leg up on the table. “What are you looking up?”

“Calf-muscle injuries,” I say, typing into Google with painty fingers.

“Perhaps you could do that later, after you’ve got me some ice?”

“I am looking it up purely out of concern,” I say.

“For the ceilings,” he says.

‘The athlete,’ I read silently, ‘will feel a twinge of pain in the back of the lower leg. They may be able to carry on playing or competing in mild discomfort. There is likely to be tightness and aching in the calf muscles two to five days after injury.’

“It says one to two days for recovery,” I say in my best ex-nurse voice, “so one, let’s say, because you’re fit.”

“It wasn’t a ‘twinge’,” he says, “it was a ‘pop’. I fell straight to the ground and had to be helped off the court. What exactly are you looking up?”

“Calf-strain,” I say.

“Look up ‘popping sensation, Achilles and tendon,’” he says, “or I’ll limp over there and look it up myself.”

“A popping sensation,” I read silently, “in the calf muscle requires prompt medical attention. Until the patient is able to see the doctor, the RICE method should be used: rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

“What does it say?” he says.

“Shh,” I say, “I’m trying to absorb important information.”

“However hard you look, you won’t find anything there to support a theory that either an Achilles or calf-muscle injury is compatible with climbing up and down ladders.”

7pm. My husband returns from the physiotherapist wearing a black moon-boot.

9pm. I am back up the step-ladder with aching arms. Below me lie Elizabeth Barret Browning and RICE-man; it appears a torn calf tendon is mainly compatible with watching Come Dine with Me repeats and making Koka noodles. It is much like pneumonia in this regard, I think, rolling, rolling.