I have a scratchy throat and one of those coughs that turns up just when you’re trying to sneak quietly out of the bedroom without waking the husband. I am also running from the nose and feel like a horse kicked me in the face.
I was bravely soldiering through, medicine-free, until last night. The main motivator for this bravery was Hubby’s warning that, if I was going to take anything, it ought to be Robitussin, and that should only be done as a last resort. This is apparently because it “tastes like the Devil’s backside” and is “a horrid, nasty, nasty thing”.
I was, understandably, unwilling to risk it, until I realised that my own constant wheezing and spluttering was going to drive me batty as I tried to get to sleep. So I swallowed my fear and swallowed the Robitussin.
It was quite nice. I can only conclude that English tastebuds are more accepting of cough syrup. Either that or I’ve married a sissy.