Silent Prayers

I'm sick. I have a nasty viral infection, which has given me a cough that makes my whole body hurt, a sore throat, a temperature and a racing pulse. Needless to say, I am not a pretty sight. I have taken to wandering around in a confused state sporting nothing but a crazy mass of hair and a dressing gown. I look like a cross between John the Baptist coming out of the wilderness (without the beard, but it's probably only a matter of time) and Crazy Cat Lady from the Simpsons, only without the cats.

Having just re-read Carol Ann Duffy's poem, Prayer, I have realised I have been saying my own silent prayers in recent days. Every time James brings me a hot beverage and kisses me, despite the fact that I'm a raging snot bag, every time he realises I look like St John the Baptist with a Bagful of Cats but giggles to himself and looks at me all the more lovingly, every time he wakes me with tea in bed and insists he got a good night's sleep despite my constant coughing through the night, I think to myself:

Thank God I married James and not Hugh.