Knismogenesis: Being Tickled By Life

Measles don't tickle, they itch!

I've known for a while that talking complete rubbish is addictive because it's all I ever do, but to come home after what felt like an extremely long day walking through treacle and type rubbish?  That seems to have superseded addiction and become more of a mental illness. Or is fetish a more politically correct term for it?





Anyway, after being kept too long on a train to work, fighting my way through maunderers at the station while swearing profusely behind their backs, arriving at work and wishing I hadn't, spending the day at work and wishing I hadn't, I arrived home hoping to be tickled by anything, anything at all, and .... wished I hadn't.





My husband, who spent the weekend in bed with an injured shoulder, has now decided to grow measles.  Measles aren't at all entertaining in a 38 year old man.  They're not very entertaining when you're five, but at least there's a feeling of relief that you've got them out the way and you won't remember them after they've left you - or at least, that's what the parental types told you at the time.  My husband has a low tolerance for physical discomfort and through overexposure, I've also developed a similarly low tolerance for his physical discomfort which causes all manner of arguments even when he's not persistently scratching his armpits.  The least entertaining thought I'm currently having is that I might have the measle too.  If it is a measle.  It might be a whole new disease, the like of which he's invented before without much effort.





He expects me to be able to tell one kind of spot from another but I can't. When is a measle not a measle? When it's a chicken pox.  Or a small pox.  Or the first sign of radiation sickness.  It might be that he has all of these at once, and I should know because I'm expected to independently evaluate each new spot as it appears and solve the itch problem as well; I could do it, but I don't think murder is an entirely appropriate response.





I've decided to go away and cook peas instead in the hope that they'll make me serene and happy like they did yesterday.  I may well type more rubbish tomorrow if I haven't started a life sentence in Azkabhan for making my husband mysteriously disappear in a big cloud of measles.  It may be a bad habit but it has made me feel better.  Productive in a non-productive kind of way.  Rabbit, over.