Having a bad cold leaves the victim wallowing in a state not dissimilar to that of being a designer. Whining and self-pitying, constantly comparing yourself to other people (well I’ve got a hacking cough, an oozing nose and my feet hurt, what have you got?) and a deep down suspicion that no-one else really understands you, sometimes ‘designers disease’ can turn you into the most irritating little <insert swear word> on the planet.
I’m not being very fair, but as you’ve no doubt guessed I am suffering from a nasty cold, the dreaded man flu, and fair just doesn’t come into it. I’ve lost my sense of taste so the rainbow of different soups I’m swallowing twice a day all taste like liquid newspaper and I can’t think in a straight line for more than five minutes without needing a lie down. Incidentally I don’t know if there’s such a thing as lady-flu but I guess girls have to deal with the mucky business of periods once a month so maybe it’s just the lads trying to leverage some sympathy by inventing a male-only affliction. Like getting a football to the man vegetables.
What I dislike most about having a cold is the pathetic lethargy it enforces on you. I don’t want to watch 6 hours of day time tv in my pyjamas, I went to university, I’ve already done it. I even made it into work one morning, so fed up was I of endlessly boiling the kettle at home to make lemon squash (one of the few highlights of having a cold is being allowed to drink hot squash) but, shamefully, by the time I arrived I was sweating like a pig despite there still being snow on the ground outside and to return home with my colleagues words of ‘just rest up’ and ‘relax’ ringing heavy in my ears.
Now you might say, “Haha, you moppy sack of potatoes, you’re clearly well enough to write a blog post, get your arse out of bed and back to grindstone, if you’ll pardon the confusing metaphor of arse to grindstone”. Well thanks for that voice from the internet, but consider this, the only things I’ve written over the last couple of months have stayed largely on my laptop and in my lemsip addled brain and it’s more a testament to how much free time being sick affords you that I’m able to write this now. Maybe I’ll write two, just to spite you. Also small children and politicians keep blogs although this is clearly never going to win a Webby award, you don’t need to be Pulitzer prize winner to be able to write stuff on the interweb. You don’t even need hands.
Enough whinging, I’m off to see if there’s a repeat of Come Dine With Me on, I think I’ve still got a tin of Cream of Newspaper soup kicking around the place too.
Merry Christmas everybody!