Milking It for All It's Worth

I was sent home early from work today for exhibiting "paleness" and "looking awful." Sort of begs the question why I haven't been sent home early from work every day of my career.

I haven't had a sick day in a while, and though it's great to have extra time to sleep and drink tea and stare blankly into the fridge only to decide everything in there would require actual cooking prior to consumption, I find myself cursing the day last week when I stood in John Lewis arguing that WE DON'T NEED A TELEVISION THIS MONTH. Had I known that October would herald my very first English cold I would have gladly shelled out for the lovely, 26", HDMI Ready Sony Bravia. Instead, like a fool, I paid the equivalent in 6 months of Council Tax to the Borough of Tower Hamlets. Ah the foibles of youth...

When it comes to being sick I am neither trooper nor sport. First I tend to blame the offending vector, in this case Pete. Then I rearrange the furniture so that it's sofa-centric. This means duvet, coffee table, pillows all come together to form my lair. I boil string beans only to eat them absent-mindedly out of the hot saucepan while standing at the stove. I fuss about not wanting to take any medicines.

Pete absorbs this with good humor and says things like "3 year-olds can't get married" and "Do you want me to get your tommee tippee cup?" Only if that sippy cup is full of Champagne, bucko, and not that vile Lemsip.

I feel dizzy, need parenting. The worst is yet to come. Damn this proto-misery.