I’ve been forced to slow down a bit for the last few days due to the fact that first I thought I was coming down with a cold, then I thought I might have food poisoning, then I thought it was norovirus, now I have no bloody idea.
What I do know is that the cold symptoms are now gone but the stomach upheavals haven’t, and it’s all a bit too medical for my liking. I shall spare you the details but it is safe to say that my life is not exactly glamorous at the moment, although I struggle on bravely.
I have not taken entirely to my bed, although on Wednesday afternoon I had had enough and went to bed at five and stayed there, sulking for quite some time. Since then, I have, in large part tried to stay at home where possible, due to the fact that it is entirely uncertain when I may need to use the facilities, and the thought of being caught short on the hard shoulder of the M1 is the sort of thing I have nightmares about.
I have used the time to read far too many depressing news articles, have a short argument with a Brexiteer who I was so bored by I gave up talking to him, even though he is still persevering by sending me tweets in CAPITAL LETTERS. It’s just no fun baiting him. No fun at all. You know your life has lost a bit of sparkle when you don’t want to poke a stick through the bars of the rabidly unintelligent any more. If I were a parrot I’d probably be plucking my feathers out about now.
The seventy biscuits are nearly gone, and the sad thing is that I have not eaten any, due to aforesaid adventures in stomach bug land. I cooked a tea I didn’t want to eat this evening and managed to massacre it to such an extent that for the first time in years I actually ended up throwing the whole thing in the bin and buying everyone a Chinese takeaway because there was nothing to be saved.
I have become stressed about Christmas shopping, because I am not inspired by anything this year, at least nothing I can afford to buy anyone. The only thing I really want to get is for Tilly, who has asked for ‘A humanitarian revolution’ for Christmas, and I think there’s about as much chance of that as there is of me becoming a Trappist monk.
I have become stressed about still being ill because this coming week is an absolute log jam of things that must and shall be done. I may have to invest in Jason’s idea of a stout cork, some waders and a lot of duct tape if I’m to get through this. If you see me coming, don’t embrace me. It’s all I’m saying.
I have cheered myself up by watching Shirley Valentine with the kids again. We love that film so much it never fails to raise the spirits. I also read Wild by Cheryl Strayed about her adventures hiking 1,100 miles along the Pacific Crest Trail. It made me feel slightly more sanguine about dashing from the sofa to the loo every couple of hours. At least I wasn’t losing my toenails whilst almost stepping on rattlesnakes and worrying about bears. It has only reconfirmed my belief that camping is God’s way of telling you to buy a house.