The Bastard Malaise

Sniffing, groaning and procrastinating. All of the things i’d expect to be doing on a day off mid week in which I”m driving my daughter back up to Manchester Uni. Hit the North! That was the plan, a whistle stop tour to drop off, go shopping visit my mate and get back down before the evening rush hour. Avoiding the speed traps set for us by the cash strapped police force, I’ve run out of chances to partake in online speeding courses now, need to lay low for a few years. Which is what I wish I was doing today. Instead of groaning my way through conversations and sighing through my mouth while my blocked nose pours mucoid lava; blocked yet streaming with rivers of snot, tenderising the bit in between the nostrils with every sniff and blow, thisa is nose sore (a distant relative of the cold sore) territory and make no mistake. I should have seen it coming with the corner of the mouth sore which I sought to ignore coming over the last week or so.

And true to form the cold choses to manifest itself on my day off, so as when I go back in on Thursday it gives the impression that I was having such a fine old time on Wednesday (today) driving up and down the motorway that I’ve gone and caught a good time bug, red wine flu, Hop field Hypochondria, so as to invent  this malaise I find myself grappling with. I know this poorliness, it happens every year at least once and rather than promote over cheery predictions as to the length of this bout, I think it’ll be here to stay for the weekend. Sad news indeed as I have plans to visit Dr S in his super lair in the far West North bit of Wales, we’ll see it could all be a storm in a teacup, but these next few days and hours are crucial, my head and 51 years experience of which about 30 I probably will have trouble to recall, but I’d say and evening at the Crow is probably off and a few days in bed watching Dinner Ladies to recharge the batteries is probably what is needed. 

The Bastard of illness, which thankfully I have only a fleeting arrangement with most of the time has struck once more, and as I psyche myself up to get out into the fields with my poor dog I ponder my aching frame and the change in temperature, meaning the frozen mud will now be softened mud and my footsteps will be grudgingly trudgingly heavier.

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