Monday, 17 December 2012

The Dark Ages

A couple of weekends ago we spent the day at the Stephs. It was lovely. The next day, Steph sent us a message to let us know that my niece Elise had scabies. Scabies! What are we, nineteenth century slum-dwellers?! What next - cholera! I did some research into scabies, otherwise known as mange. Uuurrghghghrhghh. Sometimes Google is not a good thing. Google Images should place a ban on all medically-related searches. Turns out the little scabies creatures can take four to six weeks to reach the point at which you start itching (so Elise has had plenty of time to pass on her infestation to her nearest and dearest) and then the really good news, even after you've blasted the mange mites with insecticide (yes, insecticide, which means not for pregnant women, I presume there's some alternative*...) because they cause an allergic reaction you still go on itching like hell for two weeks. That's on top of feeling like a scrofulous vagrant. Oh and then, then, you have to wash/disinfect everything close to the pestilent one (bed linen, towels, clothes, toys... oh god, how many soft toys do my kids have in their beds!) at 60°, or place everything in hermetic bags for two weeks. Yes, folks, scabies is really a whole lot of joy. I don't remember anyone having scabies when I was a kid, I thought scabies was extinct, but it's always been pretty clear, the more we blast these creatures with treatments, the harder they'll come back at us. Be sure to stay tuned for further updates. And be glad you all live a long way away...

To add to potential scabies woes, for the last three months I have been without hoover. Diligently sweeping up like some demented Charlady Macbeth. And this week our dishwasher has downed tools.

So a little recap on the current lie of the land in the crumbling state of Pilbeam-Canteau. Floors are getting cleaned and dishes washed by the sweat of my relunctant housewife's brow. And we have the plague. Possibly. We only need the washing machine to give up the ghost and I'll be trekking down to the river to beat my laundry against stones before heading back to my trusty mangle. I love a bit of Dickens at Christmas but this was not quite the kind of Dickens I had in mind...

*A quick trip to my gynaecologist this morning confirmed that, yes, there is an alternative. An extremely unpleasant locally applied cream that burns. So that's alright then.

1 comment:

  1. Cross my fingers. Knock on wood. Hope it skipped the Pilbeam-Canteau household.


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