Tigger felt decidedly unwell on Tuesday and took the day off work. Perhaps it is a feature of this particular virus that it allows you to think you are getting better when it is merely settling itself for a stronger attack. Tigger went back to work on Wednesday, leaving me moping at home, but neither of us improved much in the following days. Friday was something of a Waterloo for both of us.
Tigger felt so unwell that she took another day off work. As for myself, I felt distinctly groggy. My cold, man-flu, or whatever you want to call it, had gone down onto my chest, as they almost always do and bouts of coughing were keeping me awake at night.
Usually, I am pretty good at getting up in the morning. I lie there thinking of all the things there are to do and before long I am up and having breakfast and checking emails. Not on Friday. I simply could not bring myself to get up. I thought about it. Several times. But somehow I just went on lying there, fitfully dozing and awaking with a start. When I finally dragged my carcase from the bed and headed for the sink where a neglected heap of washing-up lay beckoning, it was midday. Midday!
The rest of the day was spent in the same dull and sluggish manner. I made a discovery: I had lost my appetite and eating became an unpleasant chore.
On the plus side, I made another discovery: lying on your back to cough is a Bad Idea. I suppose it’s like trying to bowl uphill. I found that if I sat up and leaned forward slightly, my coughs were, um, a bit more productive.
This morning was a near repeat of last Saturday. We set out in shiny weather to find breakfast. We found it. Don’t ask me where: I wasn’t really paying attention. When we left the cafe Tigger expressed it as her dearest wish to return home. I had no quarrel with that.
So here we sit or lie, two sad muppets, occasionally conscious, occasionally dozing and leaving the task of healing to the Great Physician, Time. He’d better succeed and quickly: in one week we are off on our next expedition.