Today I have a ‘belle angine’ (tonsillitis) and have taken eagerly to my bed in the belief that the Luberon must be one of the best places to languish ill, in a Proustian kind of way. Shutters that have folded protectively against heat and light for almost a century will do the same for me. Tiled floors are cool and sanitary. Maybe someone in the village will come running with an ancient Provencal remedy of crushed herbs. Maybe someone will fill my room with lilies to mask the stench of tonsil-breath. Maybe the doctor will pace the hallway with Husband, speaking in hushed tones.
Or perhaps the children will jump all over the bed and bring me an assortment of trucks and plastic dinosaurs “to make you feel better, mummy” while setting off the samba version of jingle bells on an electronic keyboard. My prescription will yield four boxes from the world’s major drug companies and Husband will thunder up and down the stairs asking rather brusquely if I need more scrambled egg and tea.
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