Sick and single

This is a very difficult post to write.

I don’t mean that it’s emotionally charged, or that I have writer’s block. I mean literally, it’s hard writing it, because I’ve had to cover the keyboard in a thick plastic sheet to protect it from the tsunami of mucus I’m producing.

I’ve got a cold. Well, you might think its a cold, but the truth is, that’s just how it began. It quickly developed into athlete’s head, dropsy, hard pad, the black gas, devil’s palsy; and now it’s clearly transformed into the medieval ague known only as “diverse ill humors”.

Laugh it up, you bastards. You probably have the words “man flu” on your smirking, snide lips. But no, this isn’t man flu.This is biological warfare.

When I inevitably sneeze my life to a tragic end, as I surely shall, heroic volunteers will be sent in, dressed in white chemical protection suits, and they’ll raze my home to the ground. The neighbours will spend months in quarantine, and if they survive the contagion, they’ll be treated as lab-rats in an effort to stamp out the horror, the horror…

All of this is bad enough, but it’s worse because I’m single. When I was in a relationship and sick, I just wanted to be left alone. But it comforted me to know that somebody knew I wanted to be alone. Today when I inevitably piss and moan about my misery, nobody will be here to tell me I’m a big girl’s blouse, or glare at me contemptuously and tell me to shut up, go to bed, or shut up and go to bed.

Being poorly: it’s the only time I feel like I want someone living with me. Dear reader, for the love of God, fetch me a Lemsip.