Throbbing
I am sat in front of my computer wearing a dressing gown on a Saturday night at ten o’clock. Any fading memory of my loud and raucous youth has disappeared completely this evening, as I have forsaken the lure of a party to sit and write a draft of the Prestwich Plan.
However, my choice to swap socialising for solitary typing was made easier by an attack of Man Flu which has crippled me this evening, and turned me from erudite man about town, to groaning misery. It began during the FA Cup Final, a match normally so boring that it brings on comas, but today able to start a throbbing in a part of my head I can only reasonably call my brain stem.
This is a worrying part of the body to have anything abnormal going on in, and it has since spread to the rest of my skull, resulting in the type of regular throbbing that makes me think my head contains not just a brain but a high performance Swiss timepiece.
I am supposed to be running the Great Manchester Run tomorrow. This was already an unpleasant prospect, and is now rendered about as palatable as sharing a surfing lesson with Jaws. If I survive the night at all, I will make a decision about whether to run or not in the morning. I am relying on the healing powers of Lucozade and grapes in the meantime, and right now I am going to bed.
I may be gone for some time.
Rick
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