Sick of it

I’ve been sick the last week with a cold. Phlegm-filled sinuses, sweats followed by chills followed by sweats, a muddle-headedness that had me actually believing that England had a chance at retaining the Ashes. And how did I react? Like a heartbroken cheerleader from sitcom land. I wore tracksuit bottoms, shuffled around the house feeling sorry for myself and craved for nothing but ice cream. It would have been easier to hold up a big sign saying, “I want sympathy”. If nothing else, it may have got me served sooner when I went back to the shops for another tub of rocky road.

The thing that annoys me the most is that the weather has started to become a bit summery. The temperatures are up in the late 20s and I wore shorts on Sunday. When the gutters are blocked with leaves and Robyn and I have arguments about who should get out of bed to turn off the light I don’t mind being ill (not just because it’s a handy card to play when Robs claims that I’m closer to the switch). Coming down with the lurgy is part of winter. If there’s cricket on the tele, there’s something unjust about having watery eyes and a runny nose unless you’ve got hay fever or Pietersen’s just given away his wicket cheaply.

So I’ve decided that I’m not going to get sick in the summer anymore. I shall simply will my body to do my bidding and I will not succumb to any virus between the months of November and February from this point onward. Having said that, I seem to remember always being the one to switch out the light so if I can’t convince Robyn to kill the light now and then I don’t think I have much hope of conditioning my body against its tiny invaders using the “please tell them to call again when it’s more convenient” argument.