Unlike Flo, nursing is most definitely not my calling
tive or two had she been in my house at the weekend.
Mrs C had a funny turn on Sunday and complained she was feeling sick. This was a bit annoying because I had my day planned out – walk in the park, bike ride, bit of time playing my guitar, then the footie on TV at 2pm.
Initially I thought Mrs C was exaggerating. She often does that. For instance she complains I am lazy and she has to do everything around the house, but she only has to do the cooking, washing, dusting, hoovering, cleaning, polishing and ironing. I do the rest.
It was only when I heard a frail voice shout from the bedroom 'can you get me a bucket?' that I realised it must be serious. She spent the next three hours being violently sick.
Call me a kill-joy but I've never much liked vomit, yet Mrs C likes me to be there when she does it. 'Can you hold my hair back?' she asked between heaves.
The answer I wanted to give was, obviously, 'not a chance – you're being sick and I'm coming nowhere near you', but of course I had to do as she said lest I appear too cold and callous.
And so it was that I found myself, last Sunday, watching someone eject a horrific-smelling green liquid from their mouth into a bucket we normally use to keep the recycling in.
I was fairly sympathetic at first. I even put the sound on mute as I watched a re-run of the 2006 FA Cup Final between Liverpool and West Ham, calling upstairs every so often 'are you okay sweetheart?'
However, West Ham had just gone two-up and I'd opened a packet of Jaffa Cakes to go with my freshly made coffee, so, as I tried later to explain to her, there was no way I could leave my seat and check on her condition.
She remained in bed for the rest of the day and in my defence I mopped her brow with a damp cloth, emptied the recycling bucket of vomit on several occasions, and even went to Sainsbury's to buy lemonade. This was on the advice of my mother, who I often think missed her true calling a as doctor.
Mrs C took one mouthful, then turned an odd colour that I’ve rarely seen on a living human, before once again emptying the contents of her stomach into the bucket I’d just cleaned.
At the start of the day I was fairly kind and considerate. But by the end of it I was starting to get narky, as demonstrated by the moment, about 8.30pm, she shouted from the bedroom that she'd quite like a glass of water. I may have uttered a short expletive, though in my defence All Star Celebrity Family Fortunes had just started.
Which is why I salute Florence and the thousands of others who look after someone else. You need the patience of a saint to do it.
I'm not a saint.