We all like a little sympathy when we’re ill – it’s just human nature. If we’re feeling bad we want our loved ones to know, and feel for us, and maybe take care of us, as well.
I met this woman a few years ago – she was actually my best friend’s mother-in-law – and she held me spellbound.
I’d never met anyone like her. Her total absorption in her health had managed to block out the realities of the world around her.
My friend organised a lunch for her family, my family, and a few others. A lovely time was being had by all until this woman started.
Now I was brought up to be fairly polite, and remember this was the first time I had met my friend’s mother-in-law so I had every intention of minding my manners.
But this woman put a strain on my good intentions. She proceeded to dominate the table conversation with tales of her sufferings. I nodded at the right times, oohed and aahed when appropriate, but on the whole tried to maintain a conversation with someone (anyone) else.
After what seemed like several hours of graphic descriptions of her various symptoms she reached the climax (finally) of her tale with the supposed diagnosis.
There was a lull in the various conversations around the table and into the sudden silence she announced that she was suffering from: