Yesterday has bled into today and I've seen it happen. No fucking sleep and I feel like a discombobulated cretin. What had been a minor 'oweeee' in my throat has slowly metamorphosed into a fully running 'man flu,' whatever that is.
I dislike the term 'man flu,' I do, because I always picture some mocking madam elbowing her female cohort at the sniffle of the nearest male. "Yer man over there," nudge, wink, point, "him and his fucking man flu. Try and foist a period on him. OR A BABY!!!"
DUH DUH DUHHHHH.
Overdid I did, though, at the Christmas. Sure it's 'The Great Overdo,' what with the buckets of spirits and stout and lager beer on offer down home in Luimneach. Puff pastry mince pies were winkled out of Marks And Spencer for our destroyment, as well as plentiful...
Yeah you know all this. We don't do it any differently, really, save for the fact that Maimie Radge creates - at the last count - 146 desserts per person. We're enough to keep dentistry out of the recession and my heart in irregular skips.
Cut to now and I'm back in the black pool, as the Vikings gave it, and I'm working from home because none of my colleagues could be fucked with the office while the turkey's still moistish. Suits me fine with my spluttering and simpering, and my nose the colour of this scarlet Christmas jumper.
If you could see me now.