Whine whine whine. (Not to be confused with wine wine wine, which is considerably more fun and less annoying to read about.)
I have now been ill for about a week. Not ill enough to justify lying around delicately looking wan, refusing food and being all Jane-Austen-heroine, but just ill. Crap, boring, hating-everything-but-mostly-myself ill. Coughing my internal organs out by night and wandering around freezing cold and miserable by day.
The meeting I was meant to have this morning (and cycle six miles to) has thankfully been cancelled, but I still have to go to Leeds and back and then host Thirsty Music tonight, and then lead a choir workshop tomorrow and a music workshop on Friday. WOE. Oh GOD I have so much NICE STUFF to be doing. Indeed I am to be pitied.
I feel so dramatic about it. I want to shout and demand to be wrapped in a slanket and placed in front of every episode of Charmed ever made. I want a little bell I can ring when I want the cat to bring me tea and toast and large doses of sympathy. I want it not to be bloody February, I want warmth and comfort instead of cold, hard snow-imminent crapness. It's got to the point where, when people ask "how are you?", I am actually telling them. This is not good.
I am meant to be planning stuff, and instead I am sulking, blogging and listening idly to the next door neighbours as they kill each other (a daily practice). The walls are so thin that I can hear every word, so much so that, if I wanted to, I could take sides. I don't want to, though. Partly because I am terrified of them, but mostly because both sides of the argument are completely insane. I am sometimes a bit envious, though. I've never really gone in for the shouty, screamy style of arguing, preferring instead the pursed-lipped, tense low discussion technique. I wonder if they would do a seminar.
("Hi there, yes, I'm from next door. So sorry to bother, I just wondered if I could borrow some of your rage? Just a cup of salt-of-the-earth, working-class shoutiness, I don't seem to have any in. I can exchange it for some middle-class terse, passive-aggressive, bottle-it-up-until-you-need-therapy anguish, I've got loads of that.")
My guitar is gathering dust and my valentine's roses are dead. I am sulking. The cat is asleep, oblivious to the fact that if he just got off his arse and made me some tea, he would make me eight billion times happier (approx.).
The neighbours have quietened down. Perhaps they can hear what I am typing and are going to kill me for referring to them as working-class. I WAS JOKING! Look, I put that bit in capitals! Oh, God.
Right, off to do be morose and self-pitying until I have to get on a train to Leeds. Good times.