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[Previous entry: "Super Bowl"] [Next entry: "Snowe" ]

Oh sick, sick...

28 January 2003

Ah, what a waste of being sick this is. Every time I try to recapture my social life, I have a relapse: Super Bowl just laid me out for all of Monday, and today I had one pint at lunchtime, one single virtuous pint and I felt rotten all afternoon, headachy and feverish and coughing again.

And yet - when I should be loitering palely on the sofa with one duvet, two cats, several hot toddies and a pile of Chalet School books, thoroughly enjoying my indisposition - I keep coming up here and working. Actually the work is kind of fun at the moment, which is why I keep doing it, shame to waste those transient touches where I remember how much I can enjoy this job; but I'm not ill often, and I do also enjoy the treatment prescribed above, and it seems a shame again to waste the opportunity to indulge in it. I used to be much better organised than this; I used to get sick immediately after I finished a piece of work. Stopped me partying, so of course I grumbled about that instead, but I'd sooner do that than this. Struggling gamely on when I feel like death has that nasty scrubbed protestant smell to it, all disinfectant and tiles and hospital corners on the bed, where what I want is softness and silks and incense, a faint whiff of decay. Damn it, my only ambition is to be a sybarite; what am I doing, playing at being dour?

By the way, your word of the day is 'smallage'. It means a kind of wild celery. Use it or lose it. And then report back.

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© Chaz Brenchley 2003
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.