I've got the lurgy, a case of something unpleasant in the innards and a smasher of a headcold.
The latter is down to misfortune and the constant changing of the seasons, not to mention the fact that I ran out of Berocca and never stocked up, but the former can rest firmly at the door of the Porterhouse in Temple Bar.
Fuck them. Fuck the Porterhouse in Temple Bar and their luncheon brand of pig swill, billed on a pretty little front-and-back menu as breaded hake fillet and chunky chips, replete with pea purée infused with mint. No less.
I had no breakfast yesterday, you see, because the cupboards were bare and I didn't fancy a trip to see my pal The Unfriendly Bastard in Spar. I had some things to do in town anyway and found myself down Parliament Street way with the Thurles lad.
While he stuck to the basics, soup and a sandwich, I was driven demented by the yearning for a feed. Hence the plate of deep fried, fish-shaped shite, frozen chips and something green to resemble what I'd snat out earlier.
Hunger is a great sauce.
Cue me, twenty four hours later, on the way to an appointment on the Southside and stopping mid-walk to pretend to speak to someone on my mobile phone, my insides suddenly somerloping from Satan's food itself.
Did I make it? It was a fucking close call.