I never get sick. I don’t believe in it. So the last week has been a real eye-opener. I’ve had no energy, achy joints, a croaky voice and a strong desire to crawl into the dog’s bed and lick myself self-pityingly. (Maybe not the last bit. Well, maybe. It seems to work wonders for him.)
Having spent most of the year running, realising that my nose is the only bit that can currently do so is just awful. And I don’t even have anything serious: I’ve been watching House - I could have something odd and only solveable by Hugh Laurie. That would be a disaster, because he’s an actor; a good one, but with no actual medical training. I wouldn’t mind him having a look, though.
I know I’m not really ill, but I’m a creature of habit: I don’t just like my routine, I love it. Being active is who I am. I walk the dog for an hour before anything else gets done. Then it’s running, or the gym, or ashtanga yoga or cycling into town for work. That’s not showing off – if I didn’t do that I would seize up. As it is, having a week without all that stuff has meant very little sleep: I’m just not tired enough. The odd press-up in the living-room and a Michelle Obama style hula-hooping session doesn’t even come close to cutting it (although these can both be done while watching aforementioned House; nice).
But with the wheezing and the spluttering and the making of the sounds like a lizard died in my neck mean that exertion is an issue, so it’ll be another few days without jogging or sleeping. I’m not looking forward to it. I wish I liked that couch more, because the me-shaped indentation in it suggests it speaks very highly of me.
Cough.
I will be much, much better soon. Please come and hear me sing with Lenny Beige at the Pigalle on the 21st, or performing with the London Comedy Improv at The Phoenix on the 30th (details here).
