I woke up this
morning and I had the beginnings of a chesty cough. They aren’t lyrics from the
worst blues song ever written, sadly.
I know, I probably
brought it on myself. Smoking will have contributed to any chest problems I
have. As will being brought up in the 70s and 80s in a world that was
practically constructed entirely from asbestos.
As the day
progressed, so did my cough. Other symptoms included tiredness, lethargy and
general shitness. It was almost so bad that it felt like a Monday.
I’ve dealt
with it as best as I possibly can: sleep, acupuncture, beer and curry have all
been involved.
Colds are
always shit. It’s the one thing that medical boffins can’t cure. Really? I
suspect they can and that they’ve developed a pill for it. They just want us to
spend thousands of pounds on tissues, throat lozenges, cough syrups that no
longer get you drunk and chalky lemon-based drinks instead of simply taking one
pill and being fine by the following morning.
I’m not one
to make a massive deal out of being ill. I’ve only had two days off work
through illness in the last five years. I may have had additional days off when
I claimed to be ill, but that’s a different story. If any former employers are
reading: nurr!
I’ve also only
been to the doctor twice in the last decade, so I’m far from a hypochondriac
(and spellcheck also just proved I’m also far from somebody who can spell
hypochondriac).
I don’t have
any amazing plans for the coming days that are health-dependant, but that’s not
the point. If my last free weekend of 2015 is ruined by illness I will be
fucking furious.
It could be
worse, I could have explosive diarrhoea. A one-man rectal Vesuvius show is always
good for a laugh.
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