Poorly

I’ve woken up with an absolute shitty, stonking soaker of a cold.
Bloody winter, with it’s bloody germs and it’s bloody viruses.
I warn you now - being under the weather makes me grumpy, so this won’t be one of my positive postings.
I ache, and I’m coughing, and I’m sniffly.
Philippa has promised to bring me some flu tablets home later, but that’s hours away, and I’m far too ill to walk to the shop for some Lemsip. I am a Man, after all. I’d be letting the side down if I didn’t just stay on the sofa and whinge.
‘Whinge’ rhymes with ‘minge’ by the way. Isn’t it funny how your mind works when you’re unwell?

SuperBowl Sunday with Ted went well. A lot of the razzamatazz was lost on him ,and he fell asleep twice, but it was nice for me to have someone to watch it with for a change.
For some reason, Beryl left us two big flasks of coffee. Maybe she thought that at midnight we’d both forget how to use a kettle? Mind you, the game was so absorbing that it was nice not to have to nip out to the kitchen at all. Next year we’re both having catheters fitted so we don’t have to leave the sofa.
Speaking of sofa, that’s what I’m going back to now, with a nice mug of soup and a sleeping bag.

RC 7-2-11