I start waking up at about five, call work at eight, and finally rise myself out of bed at eleven. I hack and snort into a tissue and examine the mess.
“Blood,” my brain mutters.
An odd thing about working weekends is when you have to call in sick. It just doesn’t feel the same as to when it’s a weekday. The TV is different, the amount of people strolling past the house are greater – and younger and smaller and louder – and it feels like a waste.
I want to just sleep for the whole day, or days, until it is all over, to switch myself off for a while until I magically fix myself like a computer does, but typically that is the last thing I am able to do and I know I am destined to spend a long day doing nothing but feel rotten, and then not be tired at the end of it because all I’ve done is sit around on my arse feeling rotten. Somewhat ironically – or not, if you prefer to prescribe to the actual meaning of irony – on weekends when I am well and want to get out and enjoy making the most of a couple of days of freedom, they are invariably lost to needless naps, lacklustre self love and unstimulating video games, none of which appeal now I am perfectly entitled to indulge.
I flick on the TV and plod through the channels.
Gilmour Girls ° Gossip Girl ° Girls Aloud
“Girls,” my brain observes.
I pause on Cheryl Cole, and briefly reconsider whether I need to limit all of my aforementioned activities, but the Ginger one is getting a lot of screen time too, and my inability to fathom how anyone could enjoy Ashley Cole’s company means mine and Cheryl’s relationship is often a tempestuous one.
(As an aside, I was in the pub the other week watch England play Kazakhstan, and shortly after Cole gave away the goal a chap ambled up to me and announced “I fucking hate Ashley Cole. I wish he’d fuck off and die, and then I could bone his wife.” A simplistic plan, but a plan all the same, and I suppose grief does funny things)
I try to look on the brightside.
After a while I give up.