… but at least I’m blogging again, right?

I should mention that I am a very bad patient. (Patient?! That would suggest a nurse, right? I am not being nursed, I am on my own!) (Also, I’m not very patient at the best of times, certainly not when I feel like crap.)

What I mean to say is: in case you think that the following self-indulgent rambling pity-party means there is anything seriously wrong with me, I will set your mind at rest right now. There isn’t. I’ve been lying in bed for a week feeling sorry for myself because I have THE FLU. It’s proper flu, and all, not man flu. I’m miserable as all with it. But life threatening it aint.

If you asked me, I would say that I don’t feel any better than I have done any day this week. Certainly I have spent most of today in bed. However, I assume that I must be improving because I have managed to finish and publish the posts I was working on to complete the Sexual History series (see below)… This is good.

But when I actually feel good, that’s when you’ll know about it.

Meanwhile, things to do whilst confined to bed:

  • Sleep.
  • Listen to the radio constantly, every waking moment: until if you hear just ONE MORE “India Rising” jingle on the World Service you know that you will explode. Then realise that you have other channels and switch to BBC7 for some gentle respite.
  • Read.
  • Wonder why it is that whenever you feel OK you feel passionately that (other) people resort to drug therapies too readily, whereas when you feel like death warmed up you can’t wait to swallow whatever you can find in the medicine cupboard.
  • Sleep some more.
  • Think up great topics to blog about when you feel better, then forget all about them and/or realise that they were only great in your drug-inspured fuzzy haze and/or simply lack the energy to do it until the moment is past.
  • Complain.

And the other thing is. Child proof caps on medicine bottles. Argh!!

Yesterday I got home from the doctors weighed down with new drugs. The only one I wanted right away was in a bottle with a child proof cap on. Child proof? It was proof against me, too. As you can imagine, to say I was not best impressed woudl be an understatement. I was sitting on the floor crying and swearing with frustration. I mean what’s the bloody point of giving me medicinein the first place if I can’t even get into it? I had to wait until my housemate got home from work and even she (usually very good at opening jars and such) almost gave up before suddenly the bottle gave up the fight and we won. Oh, precious, deadening drugs.