Saturday, 28 March 2015


This morning when I woke up, the first thing I did - even before complaining about how 7.30am isn't really a sleep in - was to cough.

This was because there was an extra helping of mucus coating my throat and filming over the passage into my lungs.

Not for long though. I coughed and coughed and did that thing where you seal off your nostrils then suck air through them anyway because it dislodges that lump of stuff between the back of your nose and the back of your throat. And then coughed that up.

On the bright side, this left me with such a sense of nausea that it was easy to go supermarket shopping and not give in to any cravings. On the non-bright side, ugh. A cold.

I've tried to temporarily up my vitamin C levels by adding actual lemon juice to my lemonade, and I've rested myself as much as humanly possible, but so far there's just no improvement whatsoever.

I don't really know what I'm surprised, colds typically do last a lot longer than one day, but each time I keep hoping that this time... this time...

Thinking of the tiny little invaders causing such reactive misery is the only thing that makes me feel any better. When I cough I think gleefully of little viral babies being thrown across the room with the force. When I sneeze and blow my nose I smirk at the thought of little viral babies being trapped in my snot.

But it's not looking good for me. If I don't make it, then I hope my darling finds my terminal-illness-wish-list and ticks off all the names on it.

What's a terminal-illness-wish-list you ask? It's like a bucket list, but when I'm diagnosed with a terminal illness you really don't want your name to have made it on their. Prosecutions take way too long to organise when the culprit has an expiry date.

And for anyone asking, I am not a cricket fan and there is no way on god's green earth I am planning on staying up late to watch the final of the cricket on Sunday night.

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