Tag: misery

#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.

'Tis the season to be miserable

So what's the deal with winter anyway?

Trite opening I know but it bears some discussion. Exactly what is it about those winter months that makes an already-curmudgeonly old git like myself into a regular Sad Sack? I refuse to believe there's not an answer beyond "it's cold" because I'm not the only one it happens to.

Case study number one: my very good friend, who we'll just call "E" in case she minds being used as a case study, cited the example to me that every bad breakup she's ever had took place in the month of December, almost without fail. Is this a symptom of the winter blues or just a coincidence? Whatever it is, it's made her just as distrustful of the month of Our Lord's birth than I am.

Who knows. All I know is that it's dark in the morning when I go to work, often dark in the evening when I return. The general public are in that irritatingly frenzied state of "panic buying" – because some people still aren't aware that most shops are shut on Christmas Day after all – and all those little annoyances about the general public that you already notice more than the average man in the street when you work in retail suddenly become ten to fifteen times worse. (I have no scientific basis for quoting that figure, I just thought I'd channel the arseholes who come up with make-up "fake science" adverts for a moment – they're gone now, don't worry.)

Last year I had the most miserable Christmas of my life. My wife-to-be had departed for Bolton to spend Christmas with her family (duty calls and all that) and I was scheduled to work.

But I had 'flu (and don't even get me started on that "man flu" bollocks that is such an unfunny running joke in this country), so I was confined to bed, unable even to go to work and spend time with the few buddies who were still here. Nope, instead I lay in bed on Christmas Day until about 3pm, only rising to make a Beechams Hot Lemon drink when the banging headaches and joint pains were getting a bit much.

I know there's people out there who have far more miserable Christmases than that, but this is my rant and god-dammit if I'm not going to be a bit selfish! (I also hate how political correctness dictates the necessity of a paragraph like this one, but that's another post all of its own)

Anyway. This Christmas is fortunately shaping up to be a lot better, as my now-wife Jane and I are spending our first Christmas on our own as a married couple.

It's not that I don't like spending time with people, you understand.

Actually, that's a lie. It's EXACTLY that I don't like spending time with people. Especially stressed-out people which, it often seems to me, is becoming more and more a part of the holiday season. The clue's in the name, people! A holiday should be a break, not an excuse to panic over a fat-ass turkey and whether or not you've got enough bloody vol-au-vents to feed Uncle Boggart.

Breathe.

So, there you have it.

I hope you, if you're reading this, have a better experience in the wintertime than either I or several of my friends have had or, in some cases, are having.

And if you do have friends who are having a tough winter, give them a hug. Sometimes it's all you need to let someone know you care, and it immediately makes things feel that much better.

I know, I'm a big girl, but I don't care.

Merry Christmas.

HUMBUG!!!