Today, Peter and Jane are ill.
"FML" says Mummy. "You can't be sick! I have just lived through the longest summer holidays ever, sustained only the distant beacon of hope that eventually you would go back to school. Oh and gin."
"I think we have chicken pox." says Jane.
"Don't be silly," says Mummy "Of course you haven't got chicken pox. That is just a viral rash or something. Probably"
Peter and Jane have chicken pox.
At Jane's insistence, Mummy Googled the symptoms and rash.
"FUUUUUUUUCK!" says Mummy. "Infectious for five to six days? There is not enough gin in the world."
Daddy is very worried by Peter and Jane's chicken pox.
"I could get shingles!" says Daddy.
"You are not getting shingles." says Mummy.
Daddy has been on Google too.
"I am too busy and important to get shingles!" says Daddy.
"You don't have fucking shingles!" says Mummy.
"Do you think that is a shingles rash?" he asks Mummy, pointing a small freckle.
Mummy's thoughts turn again to that shallow grave in the woods.
Peter has inherited his father's hypochondria, and is shuffling round the house, coughing feebly.
"FFS, Peter, coughing isn't even a symptom of chicken pox!" says Mummy.
Mummy tries to go to the toilet.
"Poor me, Mummy" says Peter, through the bathroom door "Could you take my temperature again? Are you sure it is only chicken pox and not small pox, Mummy? Perhaps I have the Consumption too, Mummy. I feel so ill, Mummy. Will you miss me when I am gone, Mummy?"
"Have you been watching Little Women again?" says Mummy
"Perhaps you could just bring me a cup of cool water, to sooth my parched lips, Mummy?" croaks Peter "And can I have a hug?"
Peter looks quite repulsive. Mummy pats him gingerly "There there..." she says.
Jane is made of sterner stuff. "I'll just put on my own fucking calamine lotion, Peter, while you lie there like a dying duck!" she shouts.
Peter rallies from his death bed for long enough to try and twat Jane.
There is now calamine lotion everywhere.
"Five more days of this?" thinks Mummy, and orders a case of gin online.
Mummy has now been at home with Peter and Jane for eternity.
Mummy and Peter and Jane cannot leave the house because Peter and Jane look like foul medieval lepers, and people recoil and throw rotten fruit at them.
Their new fun game is to flick their own scabs at each other and then scream about it.
Mummy can no longer use her words, she can only rock in the corner and sob.
Daddy comes home from work.
"I really don't feel very well" says Daddy "I have a bit of a headache, I am sure it is shingles. Can you check my rash again?"
Mummy, in a fit of extraordinary self restraint, does not beat Daddy to death with a bottle of calamine lotion, but instead pours herself All The Gin and tells Daddy to fuck right off with his fucking shingles, if he mentions it one more time, she will shove his fucking laptop up his fucking arsehole, and laugh while he tries to consult Dr Google about how to extract it.
Daddy looks hurt by this threat. "I cannot help it if I am getting shingles!" says Daddy.
Mummy brandishes the calamine bottle threateningly. Daddy decides to check for his own shingles rash.
Mummy thinks about her youth, and that boy that wasn't Daddy. That boy would not have been such a malingering twat. Mummy should have married that boy instead. Later she will look him up on Facebook, and be annoyed by all the motivational memes he posts, and will have to refrain from drunkenly commenting under a post about making your own destiny with a wanky picture of a sunset, that fucking chicken pox is no respecter of your destiny. Actually, she will probably not refrain and then will have to quickly delete it in the morning.
Mummy really really needs to leave the house soon.