After the highlight of seeing Michael Bublé in concert on Monday I’ve been bought back down to earth with a bump.
I suspect one of the up-too-close-and-personal feckers on the train had a cold. Which I now have.
Thank you so much Mr/Mrs/Miss/Ms Inconsiderate Bastard for sharing your germs.
I love the feeling of having a small, but extremely prickly cactus in my throat. It’s a wonderful feeling to be aching all over, with what feels like a tight band around my head and my eyes feeling like they’re trying to burn their way out of their sockets.
I can’t tell you how great it is to sit here with a nose like a dripping tap, a hacking cough that makes me sound like I have a hundred-fags-a-day habit, and such low energy levels, I couldn’t even beat up Winnie the Pooh for the last jar of honey.
I don’t even like honey, but for the sake of my throat, I’m willing to suffer it with plenty of lemon. I’m not overkeen on Winnie the Pooh either and would happily sock him one, the stupid little fecker. Except I don’t have the strength.
Over the phone, I told a friend I’d even resorted to taking Night Nurse the other night after suffering a really crap night’s sleep, and do you know what he said?
“What was her name?”
“Drag your mind out of the gutter you git, I’m not well,” I wailed in reply (mind you, when I typed Night Nurse into Google images, most of the results certainly weren’t medicinal).
“Yeah, you do sound dreadful. Never mind, it’s only a cold.”
Only a cold? Only a feckin’ cold??
Just wait until I hear about him having a cold. Then I’ll tell him all he has is a cold.
Wait a minute.
I’m cranky.
I’m whinging.
I’m feeling poorly.
I’ve been lying on the sofa, unable to muster the energy to do hardly anything, except wheeze, croak, sniff and sneeze.
I’m also feeling very sorry for myself.
It must mean this is not just a cold.
This must mean…
…I have man-flu.
Heh.
