I am laid up, as the old folk used to say. Whatever this bastard bug of a bastard cold thing is, it's a bastard. I know illness and injury memories fade, but I'm pretty sure I feel worse now than I felt last year with Covid. It's not flu, but it's worse than a regular cold. I have a temperature, and cough, and I'm having to blow my nose almost as regularly as I'm breathing. The pile of tissues beside my bed is reminiscent of my teenage years at home. Philippa is being very supportive by making me stay away from everyone, so I'm in bed, with a hot water bottle (a very rare occurrence for me) and trying to read a book, even though it hurts my eyes to focus on the words.
At least I am avoiding the hassle of people I work with, who seemed to take it as a personal insult to them that I was unwell, and seemed to take it as an invitation to give me advice on how to live my life more healthily. Really, nothing makes you feel better when you feel bad quite as much as someone telling you how you could have avoided it all in the first place if you had eaten one more orange, or one less biscuit, or taken a particular supplement, or avoided a particular additive.
I always thought that colds were caused by a virus that you inhale from an infected person, which then aggravates and inflames the mucus membranes in your nose and throat, but apparently I was wrong. Depending on who you speak to at my place of work, it's caused by lack of sleep, or overwork, or not trying hard enough to garner a pay rise for those working in cleaning, or (according to one rather unhappy gardener) 'the Chinese'. If only I'd known all this last week, maybe I could have prevented myself from becoming poorly, but it seems the world is populated by people who prefer to say 'what you SHOULD have done...' rather than 'this is what you should do...'
RC 23-2-23
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