Sick of being sick.

It’s official.  I’m fed up of this.  I have had a cold all bastarding week, and while I don’t much like working with a cold, I can at least manage it.  It’s only work, and if I’m not giving it 100%, then y’know, at least I’m showing up and giving it a shot.  They can just looking fucking grateful.

But when I have a cold at the weekend, I start to get seriously honked off.  As I write this, there are at least two groups of my friends at the pub, and as should be obvious, I’m not there.  I was out earlier to wish kazzik a happy birthday for tomorrow, but I came home because I was feeling tired and ropey.  On the way home, I managed to go from “ropey” to “shivering and sweating, and having trouble standing up”.

What I had wanted to do this weekend was have a few quiet drinks with chums, then go out and dance myself stupid until the sun came up, then collapse into bed just long enough to be able to attend The Fall gig tomorrow evening, followed by a healing coma until Monday morning.  The sort of rock’n’roll weekend that a chap in his prime should be having. [1]

Instead, at half past nine on a Saturday night, I find myself without even the energy to play the computer game I bought earlier for more than half an hour.  Instead, I am planning to curl up with Thea Gilmore on the stereo, maybe finish reading The Dirt (yes, I know, 2 years after everyone else read it), and possibly re-read my Barry Ween collection.  True, I am still drinking a medicinal whisky, but a nice measure of single malt in a cut crystal glass is hardly swigging JD from the bottle in the approved style (I did mention I’d been reading The Dirt, didn’t I?). 

Although thinking about it, I have to admit I’m more suited to the sipping of single malts, rather than the swigging on JD, even if I do own leather trousers.  Still, I’d rather do it in company, y’know?  I had fucking well better be more with it for the gig tomorrow.

[1] Yes, OK.  Shut up.  No-one’s impressed, and you’re not funny.  Bah.

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