Jesus, what a week. These last 7 days saw me working my ass off on a deadline in my regular job and also a simultaneous deadline in a freelance project I am working on.
And if this wasn’t enough, I got sick on Friday and spent the weekend groaning on the sofa. And a big thank-you to the lovely A for looking after me (oooh, a new letter, bet you’re all curious now, aren’t you?) and making me drink my water and eat my pills. I’d forgotten how it was to be sick. It wasn’t half as much fun as I remembered.
Yes I know I said I never ever got sick. And I didn’t. Until last Friday, when a virulent strain of the cosily-named winter vomiting disease sneaked up on me. Great name, isn’t it? No messing about there – the winter vomiting disease. I think we should give everything such descriptive names. Beer would be “making dizzy drink”, condoms would be “floppy sperm catcher” and Jodie Foster would be “look, I don’t care if she’s gay or not, she’s still really really annoying”.
I was convinced it was food poisoning. In fact, I was so sure of it that I neglected to stay at home and wandered around town infecting people, leaving a mile-wide zone of terror and puking in my wake. Sorry ’bout that people. Oops, I might add.
So anyway while sick, pale and panting I worked at every available moment and finally today could feel the pressure lifting. So to celebrate I erected (ahem) a plastic Christmas tree, and with the bemused help of H8 adorned it with plastic balls and glitter.
Pop some presents underneath and there we have it – instant Christmas cheer. That should see me through to January. Or at least until December 28 when the Brandy runs out and I am reduced to burning the Ikea furniture for warmth, and end up having conversations with balls with faces painted on them.
Nice to know that I am only a mere mortal after all. I was getting worried there for a minute.