First sight this morning was of a little blonde shadow in our bedroom doorway. I can’t recall the exact conversation that ensued between her, her older sister and myself, but I do remember W nudging me in a half punch and mumbling “what time is it?” into the pillow.
6:45am.
By turns the mobile phone alarm clocks went off, the radio alarm burst into life, and the morning routine threw us out of bed, and into the usual tasks. Our kitchen usually looks (and operates) like a military canteen between 7 and 8 on a morning. Five breakfasts, 5 lunches, multiple cups of tea and coffee, and a constanthubbubof little people and hassled grown-ups.
At some point between getting out of bed and wandering downstairs into the mayhem I realised my nose was blocked, I had a pounding headache, and parts of me were aching that I wasn’t even sure I had.As a result I’m now sat here in the study at home instead of the office at work.
I hate being ill, and I hate missing work through it, but the rational part of my brain tells me that doing what I’m doing - taking a day out - is the best plan. It avoids spreading whatever the virus is with colleagues, and gives me half a chance of recuperating.
I think I’ve had about three days off sick in the last year.