Monday, 5 January 2015

Um. Can I have 2014 back please? 2015 is broken.

I try. People, I really try. I forthwent into this new year, loins girded, armour glistening, ready to fight the good fight. I had a rather marvellously unorthodox Christmas which involved being proposed to by an 83 year old man. I got through an entire Christmas Day with just the one single argument with my mother. I put myself to gainful employment come New Year's Eve, rather than sit around like a sad sack of sadness.

I even went on a date. Yes. Actually went on it. A date with a man. And it was a nice date. And a nice man.

I began idly looking for places to live. Not with the date man. Don't be mental. Just looking, because it's time to move out of my poor long suffering mother's home. And I found one. It's perfect. It looks like a small Addams Family house. Or maybe a teeny version of Thornfield Hall. It overlooks a nunnery. Yes. An actual nunnery. With actual nuns. And the sea. Yes. It's in the attic. I will be the mad woman in the attic tower of this house that pleases me.

So I go to sleep on Friday night with my mind whirring with positive plans. Second date on the morrow I thought. My thought was interrupted by a cough. Funny, I further thought. I don't cough. Ever. Perhaps I breathed in Fatty hair. What a lovely start to 2015 this all is.

And then.

My body and brain collapse in on themselves as some evil flu monster invades my lungs. I spend Saturday not on date 2 with Mr Nice but in bed having the oddest dreams. They involved legs mostly. Here are two.

The first one was a woman who elected to have two of her legs removed. It was OK though because she had two more. Even though they were actually horse legs.

The other woman elected to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair because standing up and sitting down again was 'boring'. Which I remember thinking was quite a good point.

I'm assuming they were leg based because the nymphs of Hades were invading my muscles with tiny pitchforks of pain. Jabbing them into my not exactly tiny buttocks they were. Flailing around in sweat soaked sheets my body couldn't decide whether it was burning up or freezing cold so eventually settled for a really uncomfortably foul midway point between the two.

I spend Sunday dog sitting for my boss, prostrate hacking and coughing. I have so much to do I make a TO DO list for Monday. Today. Today is Monday. NONE BITS of my to do list got done. Instead I stumbled to work, became very ill on site, stumbled back and fell into bed.

I cough until I make the weidest ralphing noise all over the place.

I got it together to apply for my dream flat and the site is down.

I phone the estate agent and they 'haven't got round to phoning the landlord yet'.

This, people, is what happens when you make plans. When you think positively. When you think, ooooh, I'll do all this stuff.

Much better to go back to bed, crawl under the duvet and don't even bother.

Wake me up in 2016. I hear that's going to be fucking marvellous.

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