I am sitting in a plastic chair at my local surgery, watching the waiting room rock back and forth like the deck of a ferry. After 20 minutes, I am buzzed through a door. I walk down a long corridor, fending off the walls as I go, towards the GP’s office.
On hearing my symptoms, the doctor confirms that I’m suffering from labyrinthitis. He’s not surprised to hear I’ve had vertigo for a full week, and reckons I’ve got at least another week to go. But he says I’ll probably recover.
The consultation has the air of a failed job interview. I have to remind myself it’s good news I haven’t made it to the second round. “Recovery will be slow and incremental,” I tell my wife when I get home. “In the meantime, I’m meant to keep my head still.”
“It looks like a good day for some gardening,” my wife says, staring out of the back window.
“Did you hear what I just said?” I say.
At this point, I’m largely acclimatised to the tilt and whirl of things. Ideally, I’d just resume my normal activities over my wife’s repeated objections, but after a week I’m still waiting for her to object to something. I can see the difficulty: I’ve never before put her in a position where she’s had to tell me to take things easy.
On Saturday, my wife reminds me that we’re having people to lunch on Sunday.
“I know,” I say. “I write stuff down.”
“As I’m out all morning,” she says, “you will need to shop and clean and cook everything.”
“Obviously, with each passing day, I’m keen to do a bit more, but…”
“I’m suggesting you do the shopping now,” she says. “Here’s a list.”
I take the piece of paper from her. “The doctor did mention that I really shouldn’t…”
“Dishwasher tablets,” she says. “I forgot dishwasher tablets.”
An hour later, while I’m wheeling my full trolley towards a newly opened till, my wife texts me a single word: “Coffee.”
I turn back towards the coffee aisle, and the whole supermarket turns with me.
“I didn’t get the coffee,” I say later when I walk into the kitchen with two bags.
“That’s fine,” my wife says. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“Also, I really shouldn’t be driving,” I say.
“Did you forget dishwasher tablets?” she says, peering into a bag.
“They’re still in the car,” I say. “There’s loads more in the car.”
“I’ll wait,” she says.
The following evening, after our guests have left, I wander through the house, exhausted. The amount of wine I’ve drunk to counteract the clockwise spin of everything is possibly responsible for the gentle anticlockwise motion I’m experiencing – a slight miscalculation. I find my three sons watching the football in the sitting room. My wife is snoozing on the sofa. I sometimes find it easier to appreciate all that is charming and exceptional about my wife when she is asleep.
I sit down beside her, drape her arm over my shoulder and close my eyes. The world slowly stills itself and I fall asleep feeling lucky.
When I wake up an hour later, there are objects resting on my knees: a child’s fist moulded in plaster; a small action figure; a silver dish full of change. I hear stifled laughter, followed by the whir and click of a phone camera. When I turn to my wife, something that was on my head falls off.
“They’re balancing things on us,” I say.
My wife stirs, but does not open her eyes. A lime rolls from its perch on her shoulder.
“Wake up!” I shout. “Our children are balancing things on us and taking pictures!”
“Bastards,” my wife says.
