In which the Harvest Goddess takes to her bed

I have been rather quiet for the past few days.

Over the weekend, I was busy playing Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest, wandering through the woods collecting mushrooms and generally feeling at one with nature.

Unfortunately, nature appears to have retaliated by giving me a cold.

I have consequently taken to my bed, where I have been conducting myself with all the courage, dignity and stoicism of a dying Victorian heroine.

The Long-Suffering Husband has been magnificent.

He has fetched handkerchiefs, arranged pillows, supplied extra blankets and responded to my increasingly pathetic little cries with the devotion of Florence Nightingale.

There is no such thing as man flu in our household.

That particular affliction is entirely my department.

When the Long-Suffering Husband is ill, he generally carries on with life, perhaps mentioning in passing that he isn’t feeling terribly well.

When I am ill, the entire household must be informed.

Frequently.

Since Sunday, I have been lying in bed squeaking like a hungry nestling, demanding hot drinks, sympathy and cuddles. Even the cats, who are accomplished practitioners of emotional blackmail, have begun to look embarrassed.

Fortunately, LSH is a naturally nurturing creature. He seems to regard looking after me as a perfectly reasonable occupation, even when I am being spectacularly unreasonable.

I do sometimes wonder what I did to deserve him.

Presumably something very good in a previous life, although I cannot imagine what.

There are, of course, certain medicinal requirements.

Nothing soothes my suffering quite like blackcurrant tea and crumpets. Unfortunately, crumpets are unavailable in this particular corner of Sweden, so I must make do with toast.

It is a dreadful hardship, but I shall endeavour to endure it.

All this enforced inactivity has given me plenty of time to contemplate the approaching autumn.

Autumn is my favourite season.

It is the time of year when my ambition to become a Domestic Goddess reaches its annual peak. I develop an almost irresistible urge to gather mushrooms, preserve fruit, bake bread and fill the house with the comforting aromas of wholesome domestic industry.

Whether anyone actually wants to eat the results is entirely beside the point.

We rarely eat cakes, and jam consumption in this household is hardly sufficient to justify a major preserving operation.

But that has never stopped me.

The pleasure lies in the making.

There is something deeply satisfying about producing a row of beautifully filled jars, even if their eventual destination is likely to be somebody else’s pantry.

I suspect it is an ancestral instinct, inherited from generations of women who had rather more practical reasons for preserving the harvest.

My ancestors would probably be appalled to discover that I do it for entertainment.

Given half a chance, I would move to the countryside and cultivate a magnificent herb garden.

I can see it now: fragrant rosemary, thyme, sage and lavender growing in picturesque abundance outside the kitchen door.

Naturally, I would require a gardener.

Because while I adore the idea of gardening, I absolutely detest the activity itself.

All that digging, weeding and kneeling about in damp earth. It is quite intolerable.

Worse than ironing.

And coming from me, that is a very serious accusation.

So there you have it.

Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest, confined to bed with a cold, sustained by blackcurrant tea and the ministrations of a remarkably patient husband, dreaming of a country estate where somebody else does the gardening.

Perhaps Domestic Goddess is a title to which I should never aspire.

Domestic Daemon will do nicely.

At least the job description allows for occasional bouts of self-pity.

Editor’s note, 2026: I did eventually move to the countryside. I have the herb garden. I am still waiting for the gardener.