Plague! Plague! ding ding ding!

Ungh. For the second time this winter I seem to have caught some sort of medieval death flu. It's somewhat annoying* as this year I actually went out and got the flu injection. I managed two days of feeling not too bad but with a super-sore throat before the wobbliness and pathetic sniffling started. Fantastic. Nggggggggh. So, here I lie in my bed, bored outta my skull but too weak to actually enjoy the time off. I did manage to finish one of my library books, which is already four days overdue, so I guess it has it's benefits.

I hate being sick. I mean, really sick, where your head feels stupid and cluggy**. My immune system is lame. I would not be friends with it if I met it at a party. We would not hang out. I would laugh at it behind it's back. I would certainly not discuss America's Next Top Model with it on Wednesday mornings***. I would like to be nursed back to health with chicken soup and glossy magazines. I don't enjoy having to call into work, kowtow and present my symptoms, and then return to work as soon as possible, with everyone expressing concern that I'm okay even whilst making it quite clear that nobody else ever takes sick leave because they are all so much more dedicated than I am. Humph.

Anyway. Sickness = poo. Wah wah wah. Next post will be more interesting, I promise. I might even tell you about the four-hour car journey in which Bret deliberated on several names for his penis, and finally setteled on 'Humphrey Gobart'. Long story. Although upon reflection that really is the gist of it.

* well, it would be if I could feel emotion right now, but all I feel is icky.
** listen people, I'm not too sure why I'm blogging and my vocabulary is all whotsitified. Your patience is appreciated.
*** I love Janice Dickinson. I've read both her books. She's scathing. I wish I could be more scathing. It would bring me immense joy. Also, longer legs would be nice.