Phantom Thread (2017) dir. Paul Thomas Anderson
I write this in a state of infirm. It is to be expected given the time of year, for me at least. I seem to be extra susceptible to the winter bug (I do take my vitamins, I really do!). During the Covid years, I’d seem to also get a transitionary cold usually in the early weeks of September. Perhaps it signified my body’s resistance to the approaching colder weather and darker days, it served as its formal strike period. To physically function was to cross the imposed picket line. Though I think it was down to the fact that by the end of the first week of September, I was routinely partied out, having two of my closest friend’s birthdays to celebrate around that time. And, of course, it was Covid.
This year I skipped the Summer is Over Sickness, finding myself to be quite lucky, rather proud I managed it. An illness was bound to catch up to me, however. I now tend to what seems to be a sinus infection, and as of writing (day five), more prolific in its attack. I am sipping teas around the clock, swallowing spoonfuls of honey, and pouring twenty drops of echinacea tincture into water twice a day. Raw garlic may soon have to be enlisted. When I texted my Dad that I wasn’t feeling so good, he dropped soups and Strepsils right to my door after work.
My face feels taut and restricted. My eyes, watery, behind them, a dull ache. Thick mucus congeals halfway up my throat and through my naval cavity. How we take for granted the ease of breathing air through each nostril. How alien we feel when we’re unable to do so. I feel like I’m in an advert for Vicks
I can list my previous afflictions like I can each item of clothing I buy. I can tell you the month I acquired it and how much it cost me (monetary value/ time spent recovering) just the same. In May, after a workout session where I felt particularly febrile, I soon realised my overheating was due to a developing fever and not faulty A/C at the gym. I hurried out of my tight, drenched clothes, and resigned to my sofa, fanning myself from the unbearable heat.
By the evening, the fever sent me into what can only be described as a state of delirium in which I stared, in wonder, at a novelty tea pot on Vinted in the shape of a clothes drier for an inordinate amount of time.
Perhaps predictably, vulnerability never comes easier to me than when I am sick. This would be on account of the feelings of powerlessness and susceptiveness it elicits. My staunch independence dissolves without hesitation come the first sign of an unbearable cold. I want nothing more than to be coddled, pacified, and attended to. As this is one of the few instances in which I take it upon myself to accept care with open arms, I take the process of resting and getting better very seriously.
Daniel Day-Lewis in Phantom Thread (2017). Described in one review as a “perverse little romcom”, it is my favourite PTA film, though I am yet to watch There Will Be Blood (2007) and I’m told I will enjoy it. This is a gothic 1950s tale of an acclaimed dressmaker who’s life is upended by his younger muse, do watch!
Similarly, it is a time, outside of the luteal phase, where the prospect of a relationship never seems more ideal. It is a respite I wholeheartedly crave. I am moved by an instinctual desire for comfort through the oxytocin-teemed feeling of resting on the (broad) shoulders, or (big) biceps of a (lovely) man. An all encompassing hug, a chin stroke for good measure. A wish to be enveloped in a duvet besides somebody to keep me warm. Often when ill, I wake up with one arm across my chest, my hand lightly squeezing the opposite shoulder. The need to be nurtured takes grip.
In the last week of August, my gran had a heart health scare requiring a procedure, subsequently needing six weeks of bedrest. Equally, She was instructed not to lift her left arm. My family rallied and knew she needed near constant surveillance to make sure she made little to no movement, something in complete opposition to her nature. My gran is unable to keep still. Fuss she will, fidget she must.
I stayed with her for some days post-procedure and waited on her hand and foot. It was the very least I could do and I had never I felt more useful. It is in my nature to nurture, being a Cancerian, the Mother of the zodiac. Coincidentally so is my Gran (her birthday is the day after mine), and she’s devoted her life to caring. We’re more comfortable doing the helping than being the helpee.
She resisted acts of care, frustrated she acquired the role of cared for and not carer, of patient, not doctor, something with which she was unfamiliar. Gradually, she came to, and I sensed it warmed her. “I should be the one looking after you, not you me!” she lightly protested, even though I’m 25 and in fine health, and she 80. I laughed and rejected the notion, bringing in her meal and redbush tea.
*
It is unfortunate that this infection met me within the first week of starting a new job, forcing my to persist! Not much rest has been found, but reluctant to seem unreliable in the early weeks of employment meant this would be the case. Unavoidable as illnesses are. Once home, my bed and a movie are the ultimate delight.
Now working with children, I find them to be, for the most part, less demanding than the clients of my previous job—perfume buyers. Retail, like working in hospitality, truly tests the limits of one’s patience. In no other line of work will all the trivialities life has to offer be presented to you in the manner of upmost importance. Behind a counter, facing a till, you ne’er will be asked a sillier question.
I do believe working in retail (or indeed hospitality) is one’s civic duty. I also believe I have done my time. When I started my retail job, I was freshly 22, in the write up phase of my dissertation, having no retail experience under my belt. It was all brand new, and not a bad way to earn some money. Constant access to perfumes and subsequent discounts were of course a benefit. I left 24 and fed up with tedious stock-room politics. Spending nine hours of your day behind a counter doing largely menial work gets taxing after a while. Particularly when you’ve lost the enjoyment of it.
Even though I’ve been unwell for a generous portion of my time at my new workplace, it is proving to be much more rewarding. I also hope that working in a school will produce in me a robust, stronger-than-steel immune system just in time for the winter months. God knows mine needs a little toughening up.
Soon I will be back to “unfolding my wings of vanity and coquetry” The Veiled Woman by Anaïs Nin (pg 35)
Queencoc0 Talks 
Leave a comment