almost a trifle

Picture it. Baroque Mansions, the living room. The sofa, large and cream-coloured. On the sofa, an enormous white duvet all piled up like a mountain of syllabub, and two white pillows. On the duvet, a white laptop, yes, the adorable little Baroque iBook. And, under the syllabub mountain, well - I'm afraid - Ms Baroque, languishing in a big white shirt (elegantly dressed, at least, for Wednesday) with the flu that is currently sweeping through London, striking down at random almost everyone except the London Lite vendors (yes, I know it's free! So what are they?): lying for hours almost immobile, except for, now, the moving fingers that type, desultorily, and an occasional languid arm reaching for her water bottle... Picture her cheeks, red as cherries.

My temperature is a fairly steady 99.7F, which isn't high enough to be interesting and certainly doesn't explain this headache! My stomache is feeling very bad: I was awake half of night-before-last with it - the old trouble with my nerves* as I thought, like steel cables around my ribcage but not so nice - and attributed it to anxiety about my (now not-so-)impending laser eye procedures (& thanks to everyone who has emailed their good wishes; I am a charlatan). Bravely, on little sleep and with the steel cables still in place, I went to work yesterday, somehow made it through, and when I got home collapsed into bed. An hour later, realising I couldn't move and finally connecting that fact with the cold sweats of the previous night - and the fact that my top was really hurting my skin - I decided to take my temperature, and as the mercury rose the penny itself dropped. It was higher then but has been constant all day, for those of you who feel like following it.

In short, I've had to call the hospital and tell them I'm sick. What a laff! I've called the squadrons of support units and told them to call off the dogs for the time being. And now I'm waiting for a letter from the glaucoma clinic.

What a mess.

Argh.

And the eye's still shot to hell.

What a life.

* note from future: it was gall stones! If a GP ever tells you you have IBS, don't believe them.