I have come to the conclusion that I am not good at being unwell.
Yes yes you say- who is? Who is happy to be ill?
Who in their right mind intentionally tries to catch that odious lurgy sneaking its way round the office taking down its prey one by one, just in order to have a bored day at home feeling sorry for yourself.
Who sniffs the suspicious looking chicken in the fridge and thinks sod it – worst comes to worst I’ll be hugging the toilet for a few hours…
No one… What I mean is when I am ill I don’t just sit back and accept the sad truth and try and recover like a normal person- oh no, I try to plough on with my days activities regardless. As a lifelong hater of flaky friends, I feel the inane need never to bail on a days plan until I have tried my best to carry it through. I now know this is not me being clever and committed, but just plain stupid. This stupidity has left me in many a bad situation, where I may be in attendance but am lacking chat, brain power and sometimes even the ability to speak…
Today was one of those days. I wake up, I am sick into the nearest receptacle I find, but no I am fine I tell myself, this is just a minor blip in my morning routine. Off I go, I jump on the tube, and then it hits me- I am not fine… and now I am stuck in a hot metal can underground battling the urge not to vomit on the lap of an unsuspecting commuter.
I make it to the outside of my office but no further, and after a quick visit to the nearest Maccy-Ds toilet I am finally resigned to my failure of a day and head home, having spent not only an hour of my time but also a fiver.
This is not an unusual occurrence for me. But do I ever learn…Instead of calling it a day I steam on and then end up miles from my bed looking for a quiet spot in a busy London street to lie down.
Right next time I even so much as hiccup I am prescribing myself bed rest. Happy stomach now…hopefully fully recovered tomorrow.