143 grams of Plaice & 5 liquid ounces of White Wine

PantyHead has a cold. The origins of which she immediately traced back to her long-suffering daughter who had stopped by this weekend. I overheard their phone conversation, not because I was eavesdropping (although it is one of my supernatural skills), but because PantyHead has a new auditory-enhancing phone. The new phone is so loud that I have to hold it at arm’s length from my ear, for fear of rupturing my eardrum:

PantyHead: Hello Dear, I’m just phoning to see how your cold is?

Dear: Hello Mother, I don’t have a cold.

PantyHead: Are you sure Dear, because I heard you sneeze 3 times when you were here and now I have a terrible cold, it’s on my chest.

Dear: Mother, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Well, Emma doesn’t have a cold and I heard you sneeze. You must have a cold coming - that’s when they’re at their most infectious.

Dear: MOTHER, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Are you sure dear, you sound rather cross?

Dear: I’m not cross and I do not have a cold.

PantyHead: [Voice growing reedy and thin and raised by 3 octaves] Aren’t you lucky to be so healthy. I feel terrible.

Dear: Mother, I’m very sorry that you have a cold.

Poor Woman (I mean ‘Dear’) can’t even sneeze without sparking accusations of being a disease-harbouring incubus. Of course we had to ring the Doctor posthaste. He nipped round sharpish and despite depressing PantyHead’s tongue whilst shining his torch into various orifices (the plural of which should really be orifi) as well as listening to her chest could find no signs of ill health. He urged her to rest and eat normally.

‘Eat normally’, he said. PantyHead chose to ignore this advice and now demands that I weigh out her food as this will help to stabilise her blood sugar levels. She is quite precise in her demands, requiring exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine. When I stupidly questioned why she doesn’t just eat as much plaice as she feels like she lectured me on the sugar to salt ratio differential between plaice and salmon. Apparently she can eat as much salmon as she likes, but plaice is another kettle of fish, as it were. According to the Gospel of PantyHead, the alcohol in her wine is cancelled out if the wine is imbibed with a glass of water. Again for a bit of sport I took her up on this topic, but was told in no uncertain terms that a glass of water, following a glass of wine makes it non-alcoholic. “Of course” she said, “you don’t understand this because you are not a nurse.”

Lucky she doesn’t possess a driving licence or a car – “Well, hello, Mr Orificer, no I’m not ovsher the limit, I’ve only hass jsust 4 glashes of wine, but I hass water whish them so it doeshnt’ count, doesh it?”