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What's green, white, and wobbly all over?


That's right, folks, that was me at the weekend. Although, I'm wobbly all over all the time, so maybe I should have left that part out as it doesn't pertain specifically to the weekend... nah, I'll leave it in, it rings true.

I know I missed my FFF on Friday. Please accept my humble apologies, and the forthcoming explanation. Not excuse, mind you. Explanation.

Okay, excuse.

I'm sick. Properly sick. I came home from work on Friday coughing my head off (although not literally, it's fairly firmly attached), and attributed it to having been on my hands and knees with the hoover in the post room. Woke up Saturday morning realising that the potent post room dust/toner combo was just a coincidence, and that I was actually sick.

This meant I had to cancel going round a workmate's house to teach her sixteen year old daughter how to use her new sewing machine, which I was REALLY looking forward to, and had the extra added bonus of letting her down to make me feel great about myself. I then thought that I'd just go into town with Himself to meet his sister and her fiancee for the Day Out in London for which they'd come up from Colchester, including tickets to a show that cost £40 each. In case you're wondering how well that went, I (woozily) got halfway into my jeans before I had to admit I wasn't physically capable of leaving the house.

The rest of my day was spent on the couch with the duvet and the mogs. Girlie movies on the big screen, several naps, much coughing and hurty skin. Even with the naps, I still went to bed around ten, and when I woke up the next morning feeling like there was an elephant resting about six inches under my chin, I gave in and went to the walk in centre at Charing Cross Hospital.

Chest infection was the order of the day. Amoxicillin tablets for seven days, no smoking allowed (which isn't that hard, given that I still can't draw a full breath and would only be wasting the nicotine anyway) and a cough that has my office treating me like Typhoid Mary. I need a sign around my neck that says "NOT CONTAGIOUS".

The moral of the story? Never clean anything.

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