I love working with men.
The way they just point and snigger when I trip over and then shout out, ‘yeah, mind the step love, eh?’
And when they ask ‘is the leccy off? Can’t see the kettle on?’
I love that they can talk animatedly about cars for hours. Or motorbikes. Or the quickest way from A to B (very, very heated arguments).
What I’m not so enamoured with is their total disregard for their health:
‘Boss, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh nothing. Just that neuralgia on my face back again. And I’m soooooo tired. Do you want that last piece of chocolate twist?’
‘Really??? Have you been to the doctor?’
‘Ha! Like, no. Mind you, I’m totally spaced out on the painkillers. Neurofen are the best. Nice.’
‘Meh.’
(I then gear up for full-on nagging mode) ‘You do know, don’t you, you’re 8 years off 50. 50!!! You can’t take these things for granted….’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. Are you having that last bit or not?’
I love my boss. Not in that way. We’ve known each other for almost a decade. We get on brilliantly. But I worry about him. I’m probably healthier than he is. He said to me this morning. ‘it’s bonkers, it’s as if I just have to get home, have to lie down, and nothing else matters but lying down on the sofa.’. Um, yeah, I’m with you on that one.
So what should I do? I’ve already been with him to hospital the last time he had the nerve pain. This time round, his eye is shutting and he can’t open it properly. He looks worn out. I’ve emailed him the NHS guidelines about neuralgia. When I left him at work today, he was exhausted, turning on the cement mixer to finish the brick-work.
My lovely twitter friend has started a hashtag, #Boss2Dr – if he listens, I will buy him a Peppa Pig Easter egg (don’t laugh, he adores that pig).
As for me, I’m back in work tomorrow…