Janet Christie: The mother of all headaches

By Janet Christie
Published on 18/06/2012 00:00

I COME TO, standing with my head resting on the pile of washing that sits permanently on the kitchen worktop. Why am I here?

Why am I surrounded by planks of wood? Why is washing scattered all over the floor? I feel pleasantly woozy and gaze at it all. Then the mother of all headaches kicks in and I touch my head to find a burgeoning bump.

OK. Clearly the clothes pulley has collapsed onto my head. I don’t feel good so I meander into the hall and shout the boys.

“Can you come down here a minute?”

Nothing. I can’t shout. I feel sick.

“Can you come here a minute please?

Still nothing. I try again and Middle Child appears, then clatters down the stairs like a moose on mescaline.

“What’s wrong?

“The clothes pulley fell on my head.”

“Why didn’t you shout?”

“I did.”

“But you know when you say ‘can you come down here, please’ we always ignore you. Next time try ‘help!’”

“OK”

Suddenly Middle Child is restringing the pulley, Youngest is standing on the kitchen table expertly rehanging clothes, Eldest is patting my shoulder and saying, “Don’t worry, this will happen more now as you get older”, then taking out the bins.

Who knew they could do all this stuff? A plan forms. Early onset dementia. They’ll never know I’m faking.