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.