Being sick on the weekend feels like such a punishment, you know? All those lovely plans laid waste by illness on your own time. When I decided to leave my lair on Saturday morning after a leisurely lie in, I was most unhappy to discover that the rest of my Saturday would involve nausea and a pounding headache. I doubled over in the shower, then dragged myself back to the bedroom. I sulked/slept/moaned lightly in bed until about 8.30 that night. That was when I dragged my carcass to the living room to lie limply on the couch for the second half of the All Blacks game. P told me to go back to bed; the ABs had been playing much better when I wasn't there.
Sunday and Monday were slightly better, in that I managed to wash myself and don a bra both days and even left the house once, briefly. Not 100% though -- I feel wrung out today from walking to work (not to mention, you know, working).
But it is nice to be back to the usual routine today, I must say. I've come back to work, found the blameworthy parties in spreading the lurgy and castigated them thoroughly. Aren't I a peach?!
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