Would you bloody believe it? Last day of a week’s holiday and I get a mystery – not to mention unattractive – sickness bug at 2am Sunday. You couldn’t make it up. I’m very pissed off now that I can move my head to pick up my phone and moan about it.
Regular Facebook inspections have revealed that everybody’s having a fabulous Sunday doing their Sunday thing and I’m lying here alone, except for Tucker, a big sweaty mess.
He’s been regularly bringing me toys that I don’t have the energy to throw for him. I could feel his wee furry presence creeping in to the room and I just knew he had his squeaky fried egg in his mouth and he knows that’s my favourite. I hadn’t the energy to turn round and speak to him. I’d’ve cried at his little Paw Broon face.
Is there a sicky bug doing the rounds or am I responsible for bringing it into the country?
Fortunately (but not for them – they’ve now seen things you people wouldn’t believe, to paraphrase Rutger Hauer in Bladerunner) I had the offspring stay last night and they were very supportive and caring (although at one point Hannah unhelpfully suggested “Get a Chinese takeaway doon ye” which made me barf anew.
I’ve lost my voice due to vomiting what felt like battery acid for twelve hours solid.
Strangely, I now fancy some Haribo but I can’t go like this – I’m as weak as a kitten and haven’t the energy to put clothes on. I couldn’t handle a visitor either so it’s Catch 22, innit?