There can be no denying that a) I am sick and b) I am much sicker than I've been at any other point this winter (which seems from this vantage point to have been an endless wasteland of tissues, strepsils, Codral & honey-lemon tea). With the possible exception of the flu I had a few months ago when I was trying to move house (a time so bad that I think my brain has blocked it from my memory), this is a sickness to show up all the rest. One that takes the ever-present tissue and turns it into a staggering snowdrift of paper containing vile mucus of a fair rainbow of shades, turns the sweet escape of bed into a restless, tossing, turning, coughing, feverish hell that not even the most extreme medicines have helped, one that makes me vague and cranky and achy and incredibly, blindingly stupid.
Of course the plague arrives at the same time as spring bursts joyfully into the landscape, with ridiculously warm days showing off stunning arrays of blue skies and flowers. I even have a few days off at the same time as my lover, and nothing makes me stamp my feet in frustration more than wasting time with her. There are so many better things we could be doing out in the sunshine than huddling in here passing tissues and moaning. Ah well.
I'm at the point with this stupid flu that a return to the low-level sore-throat-runny-nose colds of the past three months would be a tremendous relief. I can't even remember what it feels like to be healthy.
Have I mentioned before how much I hate winter? Yeah. Hate.