Oh the hopes I had, leading into a week off work. The things I was going to do. The universe obviously saw those hopes, raised a considerable boot in the air, paused for dramatic effect, and then dropped it upon me.
I don’t think I’ve felt quite so dreadful in some time.
Isn’t it interesting how your body keeps going until it knows it doesn’t need to - then the viruses that have been doing the rounds among everybody you know come for you too. It’s almost like your immune system thought it was on holiday too - and left the doors unlocked.
While lying in bed listening to the radio this morning, wondering if my nose could be any more blocked, or my throat more dry, a gear or cog of some sort turned within me. I lurched out of bed, gathered clothes together, and stomped downstairs in the direction of the shower.
“A shower will make me feel better”, I thought.
Ten minutes later - showered, not shaved (I’ll tell you about that in a moment), teeth brushed, and dressed, I wandered into the kitchen and was about to make a coffee when another cog turned, and I thought “dammit - I’m fed up of bouncing around these four walls”.
And so - after grabbing a coat, and throwing the Chromebook into a messenger bag - I trudged towards Wetherspoons for a cooked breakfast. I’m not entirely sure you can call the breakfast I’ve just eaten a “cooked breakfast”. It was grandly titled an “American breakfast” - I would love to know what my American friends thought of it - or if they can guess what might have been on the plate.
Anyway.
The reason I haven’t had a shave.
Two days ago - while having a shave, tidying the bathroom, and trying to wash the sink at the same time - I had a colossal failure in coordination, and managed the pull the razor sideways across my chin. I knew the moment I did it that it wasn’t going to be good - peering into the bathroom mirror with expectations of a horror film scene. Nothing. Not a mark. To begin with. Over the next few seconds a thin line of blood appeared across my chin - beeding up here and there along an almost invisible cut.
I stuck a piece of tissue on my chin, and wandered into the lounge.
“I’ve done something a bit silly”
My other half looked up and rolled her eyes. Such concern. Given the square of paper stuck to my chin, I made a joke about being a cubist Santa impersonator. No smile at all. Not even an eye roll. Just a mutter of “of course”.
We debated (or rather I debated) if I should have stuck some tape over the cut. I didn’t in the end. I’m a bit of a bugger for not using plasters, or bandages, or anything like that - I just let fresh air and miraculous clotting factors do their job.
Two days in, and it’s not bleeding any more, but it itches. If I absent mindedly scratch it, I wonder why I have red pen on my fingers. I imagine it’s going to leave a pretty good Harrison Ford style scar.
I suppose I should wander home soon. Go and re-fill the washing machine, empty the dishwasher, and then figure out what to do with myself for the rest of the day. I might drop into the supermarket and stock up on cold and flu medicine. I suspect it works like umbrellas. Have you ever noticed if you go for a day out somewhere, and it’s raining, and you buy an umbrella, the rain stops? It doesn’t work if you take an umbrella with you - only if you buy one. Strange.