Around about the time the weather in Scotland turns cold my chest decides that I don't appreciate the ability to breathe as much as I should and gives me a stinking chest infection.
Green lumps of phlegm are lodged in the top of my lungs, my chest begins to feel like someone has set about it with a brillo pad and industrial bleach, the hair on my head hurts, I daren't shave, my head pounds like I'd been out on the randan and I'm sweating like an inexperienced drug mule on his way through customs with enough illegal drugs up his jacksie to make Amy Winehouse, Pete Docherty and Courtney Love pass out through sheer joy.
At these times it is best for all if I do not venture out the house as my patience is seriously limited and I am easily annoyed. So for today, and the rest of the weekend, I shall be taking to my bed with a bottle of cough mixture and a bucket to hawk my lugies into.
*Update*
It's now a good twelve hours later... My joints have begun to ache like I am a 70 year old man, my voice is starting to sound like I have no voicebox and the normally amazing Dr Solpadeine isn't having the effect I had hoped for.
1 comment:
creeping crud sucks, Ross... sorry to hear it found you.
Be well, stay warm, and we'll all see you when we see you.
xxoo
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