Caring for a sick chap has been an eye-opener

No, I'm not ill. Nor am I stressing over some upcoming bout with the bank manager, boss or bikini waxer. And it's definitely not a newborn.

It's something much worse than that.

Something so needy and all-consuming, it strikes fear into the heart of every woman out there.

It is – cue "O Fortuna" soundbite – the sick boyfriend.

I know, I know, I can feel your empathy from here.

Yep, I am walking around in a zombie-esque daze because, as well as my actual job of talking to you nice people every week, I am now a 24-hour nurse, chef, cleaner, chauffeur, personal shopper, pharmacist.

He's laid up with a bad leg, I've suddenly turned into Cinderella. But without the helpful mice.

Oh, how I long for the helpful mice.

Perhaps they could get up at 4am to re-prop his pillows and stumble to the kitchen contact lense-less to get Robinsons and Co-codamol?

Not that I've been asleep up until that point. Oh no, not a chance thanks to the yelp-and-whimper symphony that is now my nocturnal soundtrack.

It hurts to move, beaut? Stop moving then. It really is that simple.

Then it's up at 5am to chauffeur him to work and on and on goes the endless cycle of dinners, driving and drugs (and not the good kind).

As you can probably tell, I was never cut out for a career in nursing.

Or parenting.

Or anything that in any way requires the care of someone or something other than myself.

I had some fish once but, to be honest, the fact I had to watch my mum and dad feed them every night was a burden on my schedule.

However, this most recent snapshot into a life less selfish has been a real eye-opener.

I've only dipped my toe into the water of not being completely self-centered and it's ruddy exhausting. Ladies and gentlemen of the care industry, I doff my imaginary cap to you. My actual cap is in that fourth load of washing I've had to do all by myself in the past three hours.

And, you know what, I even concede to you parents too.

For too long now, I've moaned about new parents and the special treatment they get. But after a week of sleepless nights and not a single moment to myself, the war is over. You can keep those reserved supermarket parking spaces, you deserve them. The fact that you can only talk about how shattered you are 24/7? I get it now. I'm with you. You carry on moaning mate, you've earned it.

So, while I look and feel like I've been sleeping on a park bench for a week (actually, that sounds pretty appealing, which way to the park?), playing nursey has been something of a blessing in disguise.

I've learned a little about cooking and cleaning and a great deal about compassion and care. Not to mention patience and just how easy a 20-something childless unmarried who lives alone has truly got it.

An uninterrupted episode of Corrie and a good night's kip? I'll never under-appreciate them again.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm off for a sob and a sleep in the store-cupboard.