Day one of Illageddon (not in the Beastie Boys fashion) and it’s going… well, let’s just say it’s going. I’m not dead yet. There’s still fight in this salty* old** seadog***. It’s trying to get me down – to make me quit. But I won’t.
The sniffles have never been able to take me out completely, and I’m not about to start letting them now. Even if they are really annoying.
The night was tough. There were parts where I thought, nay – feared – I wouldn’t make it through. The tossing and turning, the restlessness, the inability to sleep more than about three hours all night… it was bad.
But nothing could prepare me for the horror of when I eventually did pass out – and let’s not mince words here: that is what I did. On awaking, again, something was amiss. Something was wrong. Something was – as they say – ‘not right’.
I wouldn’t have believed it had it not happened to me, frankly, but there it was plain as a Bulgarian pin-up****. I was on the wrong side of the bed. Not at an angle, not only slightly – I was completely on the wrong side of the bed.
This hasn’t happened in a long, long time. I didn’t know what to do. I was already delirious from illness and fatigue; this was the last thing I wanted.
But I managed. I got out of it. I got to work. I managed to get through a mere two packets of tissues. I dragged my carcass to the shop and was able to purchase plenty more tissue-shaped supplies. I will get through this.
But I still haven’t had enough sympathy for my plight, which sickens me, frankly.
*Only when I’ve been sweating.
**Not compared to people who are older than me.
***I am genuinely afraid of the deep sea, though I do like boats.
****This joke, stolen from Red Dwarf, doesn’t work these days as we know all Eastern European women are beautiful.