Kidney.

“Alice”.
“Mmmm” I slumbered.
“Alice!”, Hubby’s voice was more urgent and he put his hand on my buttock. I slapped it.
“Not now”, I groaned, “I’m fast asleep”.
“I need you”.
“That’s all very flattering”, I mumbled into my pillow, then squinting up at my clock, saw that it said 5.55. “But it’s the middle of the bloody night. Later.” and I pulled the duvet over my head.
“Alice please”. God, this man was persistent, was the poor chap that desperate?
In an act of ultimate benevolence, I capitulated. “Come on then”, I said, “Get on with it” and puckering up, waited for the beast to pounce.
“Alice what are you doing?” I opened my eyes. Hubby hadn’t moved.
“Waiting for you big boy”, I drawled sexily, or so I thought.
“Why are you talking like some 70’s hooker? I’m not after your body. I’m in agony; I think I’ve got kidney stones or cancer”.
“Huh?” Why was he waking me in the dead of night to tell me this?
“You’ve got to help me. It’s excruciating. Go and Google the symptoms.”
“Are you completely off your head?”
“Please. I can’t stand it” and as he rolled towards me to make his point, he let out an almighty “aaargh”.
“Where is the pain?”
“Here, just under my ribs on the left side of my back” and as he once again groaned, I sat up.
“I’ll be back in a minute”, I said wearily, pushing off the duvet cover. Hubby rolled to his right, as he did so, I saw something silver lying on the mattress.
“For God’s sake, you haven’t got kidney stones; you’ve been lying on the nail clippers all night. Look” I brandished them at him.
“Oh”, he said, crestfallen. “You sure Alice?”
“Quite sure. Feel for yourself,” as I showed him the indentation of the clippers in his back.
“Well bugger me. It was agony. I’ve been lying awake for the past couple of hours, too terrified to move. I had to wake you in the end”.
“Evidently”. I flopped back on my pillow.
“The thing is Alice, now that I’m so happy to be given a second chance at life, well, it seems churlish not to celebrate, if you get my gist”.
“Forget it. Keep your hands to yourself”.
“Spoil sport” and he rolled over in a huff. Just as I felt the delicious balm of sleep once more envelop me, one of the children stood by my bed. I couldn’t figure out which one it was and was loathe to open my eyes again, lest they think, ‘Hurrah mum’s awake’. Eventually and for the second time that night I gave in. Without opening my eyes I growled, “Which one of you is it?”
“Me”, said the second daughter, “Is today the prince day?
“No darling, there are three more bed-times until we meet Prince Charles. Please go back to bed.”
“Can I watch Cbeebies?”
“Yeah Cbeebies”, her little sister had joined her. I poked Hubby very firmly in the kidney, “Your turn. Put the TV on for them”.
Groaning, as though fast asleep the fraud, he dragged himself out of bed.
“Prince Charles?”
“Yes daddy. He’s going to walk about with a duchess.”
I pity His Royal Highness. There must be little schoolgirls everywhere, who, brought up on fairytales and promises of dashing princes, are bitterly disappointed in the real thing. My own daughter’s was palpable. Looking at her face I knew she was expecting the Prince look: cape, cod-piece and crown.
“Where is he?” she kept asking, jumping and down, the rain sluicing down her kagoul.
“Over there love”, I pointed out. A medium sized man in a suit, albeit bespoke, was not her idea of castles and love everlasting.
“Where Dutch dress mummy?” asked the Red-Head. I was at a loss.
“She means duchess”, explained her sister.
“There sweetie”, I said, “The lady in the blue coat and see-through umbrella.”
God bless Camilla, how many mere mortals, weeks after strenuous gynaecological surgery, could be found traipsing around a soggy Cornish fishing village, trying their best to look coiffed and delighted as yet another small boy, who would be far happier to meet Dr Who, presented her with another cellophane covered posy?
The entourage was low key and we were not herded behind barricades by bolshi policemen. In fact, these policemen, having a day off from apprehending drunken sailors looked quite excited by the novelty of it all and were therefore quite encouraging to the schoolchildren. Then again, with the weather being awful there wasn’t exactly an unruly mob in Cawsand Square and we were able to get a good look.
“Where is her fur with the dots?”
“They keep their ermine for state occasions darling” I tried to explain. One of the teaching assistants standing next to me was getting more and more agitated.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Just realised we haven’t got anything for the kids to present to Camilla. What shall we do?”
“Something from the shop on the square?”
“I didn’t bring my bag”.
“I did” and I shot into the shop and spotted the perfect gift: a box of Cornish fudge with Cawsand written on it. She wouldn’t forget where she’d been that day at least. I got it to my daughter just as Charles and Camilla walked past. In her pink, squelchy mac she stepped forward and proffered the gift.
“This isn’t fudge is it?” asked Camilla smiling.
“Yes”, whispered my daughter, “I’m sorry about your hysterical tummy”. Camilla smiled quizzically.
The teaching assistant looked at me, “Did she just say hysterectomy?” I shrugged my shoulders, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…”