Unfortunately, viruses haven't availed themselves of the timetable for public holidays in New Zealand, and my companions have decided to continue working full speed ahead.
For the past couple of days I've had a lovely croak to my voice. It made me sound like a blues singer who'd been hanging out in smoky bars. But without the benefit of being able to sing, and ignoring the fact that no bar is allowed to be smoky anymore.
Today, however, my voice went way past sexy without passing go and without collecting two hundred dollars.
Laryngitis you are not my friend.
Each time I come up with a witty comment, or a passing opinion, I need to repeat it so many times before it's heard that all the cleverness is sapped away by exasperation.
Last year when I had laryngitis at work I made up a handy sign that said 'I have laryngitis, please don't make fun of me.' In case anyone still tried I'd written on the back 'Or I'll kick you arse.'
If I'm still having the same amount of trouble expressing myself tomorrow I may need to recreate this, or come up with a new interpretation. Something that will hammer home to my darling how much he's not funny when he's sitting there with a smirk on his beautiful face pretending not to understand.
You just wait, sweetie. You'll get yours. Tonight I'm going to wait until you're asleep, and I'm gonna cough all over you.
Because sometimes you don't need spoken words to express how you feel.
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