#oneaday Day 126: Bleurgh

Being ill is rubbish. There is no kind of being actually, genuinely ill that is good, whether you’ve got a bit of a cold or your cock has just dropped off from leprosy. (And don’t even think about correcting me about bits dropping off from leprosy. I don’t care because I’m ill and therefore grumpy.)

I’m not talking about pulling a sickie. No, that’s always awesome if you get away with it. That phone call in the morning, the exaggerated coughs and tired-sounding voice, perhaps flushing the toilet to imply you’ve just been vomiting and/or pooing or, in the case of truly serious cases of fake illness, getting someone to phone on your behalf because you’re “too sick to come to the phone” or you’ve “lost your voice”.

No. I’m not talking about that.

Specifically, at the moment, I’m talking about the kind of being ill which just lingers a bit like a bad smell (sometimes literally) but doesn’t actually incapacitate you completely. This is one of the most frustrating kinds of mild illness (I say “mild” because I imagine having cancer or AIDS is probably a lot more frustrating than almost anything in the universe) because you feel like you should be doing things, and that you’re being lame for just wanting to snuggle up under a blanket and watch Battlestar Galactica* all day. But then your body promptly corrects you the second you try to do anything by reminding you that — surprise! — you’re full of snot and therefore can’t breathe or do anything without gasping for breath, mouth-breathing or doing old-man grunts.

This is, of course, rubbish. It’s doubly rubbish if you’re by yourself and have no-one to moan and complain at and look pathetic and hope they bring you chicken soup and bacon sandwiches and mop your fevered brow with a cold flannel or whatever it is that people do for an ill partner. Although the temptation to milk it somewhat if said partner is present is always there. “Oh! I ache so much! I feel like I’m going to die! The only thing that could possibly save me is a packet of crisps and a big cup of coffee! Who will save me from a fate worse than death?”

I’m actually not that bad, really, though I woke up feeling like a newly-reanimated corpse this morning, and my throat has spent the day feeling like I swallowed a tennis ball made of sandpaper. I was all set to go away this weekend, but have decided for the sake of my mildly ill self to give it a miss and try and recover a bit. Hopefully that will work, so I don’t have to proceed through the following week in similar misery and mild illness.

For now, I feel it’s time for Lemsip and Soothers. G’night.

#oneaday, Day 2: Flubag

I can always tell when it’s the holiday season. Because the holiday season is the Time To Get Ill. Almost without fail every single year, at some point around Christmas/New Year, my body goes “Nope! Had enough. Here’s some snot. Happy Christmas!” and buggers off for a few days.

This year is no exception. I thought I’d escaped, because for the whole time I was over in California visiting my brother for the holidays, I was fine, despite everyone around me gradually sinking into a mire of barking repeatedly like someone with Spatchcock’s Ever-Coughing Syndrome. Including the dog. Who was actually barking, not coughing.

On the plane ride on the way home, though, I felt the illness hit. Several other Spatchcock’s sufferers on the flight coupled with yummy delicious recycled air being pumped around the cabin meant a breeding ground for germs. And sure enough… “Had enough. Here’s some snot. Happy Christmas!”

Well, you’re late, illness glands. And, you know, you really didn’t have to get me anything this year. I just got you a bunch of pills, and I know you don’t really like them that much.

The most irritating thing about suffering with Spatchcock’s Syndrome is how difficult it makes sleeping. When you lie down in bed with Spatchcock’s, you are constantly in one of two states: mouth-breathing, or coughing.

The mouth-breathing comes because your nose is so full of juicy snot that if you didn’t mouth-breathe you’d suffocate and die, and suffocating and dying because of snot would just be embarrassing. If you do happen to get to sleep whilst in the mouth-breathing phase, your snores will qualify as some of the most disgusting noises on the planet and will probably involve bubbling. If you are sleeping with anyone at the time, this is a sure-fire way to find out if they really love you or not.

The coughing usually comes when you manage to clear your nose a little bit, and inevitably brings up more snot to join the party. The noise and the irritation in your throat wakes you and anyone in the same building up, and once it passes you’re back to mouth-breathing again.

So you probably end up not sleeping until your brain is so devoid of power that it goes into laptop-style hibernation mode and fails to wake you up until lunchtime the next day. And because you slept at a weird time, you end up feeling crappy the next day, which compounds the whole situation further.

Eventually you just decide to not sleep any more until this dratted pox departs your system, during which time you gradually slip into a hallucinogenic fantasy which you can’t quite decide whether is good or bad or somewhere in between and then you die. Possibly.

I am grateful for one thing, though: at least it’s not full-on achey joints flu, which I’ve only been struck down with once at a time that happened to coincide with a Christmas I was set to spend alone in my house due to holiday retail work commitments and the rest of my family doing other things. Elsewhere. Without me.

Remind me why I want to get a job again?

One A Day, Day 36: An Open Letter

Dear Universe,

I write with regard to the recent delivery you made to my person – specifically, the bumper package of coughing fits, temperatures and shaky hands.

I do not remember ordering these items, nor do I wish to keep them. As such, I must humbly request that you dispatch a courier posthaste to come and pick them up. Technically the items have been “opened” and “used” since they are coursing through my body as we speak, but since I did not order them and they appear to have been delivered in the dead of night directly to my person rather than appropriately packaged at a more sociable hour, I do not feel that the premature opening and usage of said items is my responsibility.

I am of the mind that this delivery was perhaps intended for someone else. If this is the case, would you kindly furnish me with the details of the intended recipient and I will do my best to forward on the items as soon as possible. I would not wish the items’ rightful owner to miss out on the experience of coughing so forcefully it creates a side-effect of unintentional flatulence.

If, on the other hand, the items are an unnanounced “gift” from someone (which is possible, seeing as there did not appear to be a receipt with the items) then I request, with respect, that you provide me with their name and address so I may return the favour, perhaps through the medium of Uzbekistani sledgehammer dancing – a dangerous yet beautiful artform which frequently places bystanders’ testicles in mortal peril.

I thank you in advance for your co-operation in this matter, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Pete Davison