My coughing, sniffling, feeling a bit peaky former self of the last week has been replaced with shivering, sweating, sneezing, streaming, hacking, washed out souped up model of poorliness. I officially have man flu - without any of the lying arond doing nothing that goes with it. In fact I am so poorly that my husband actually noticed and made son 2's packed lunch today... without me even asking! This despite him still having a few last remaining strands of man flu himself. It's a Christmas miracle.
I am so poorly that I had to cancel a long awaited girls' night out last night. Sniff. And I had to cancel a business meeting today as I didn't think the client would appreciate my nose dripping into her latte.
But despite this poorliness, I've still not squirrelled myself away in my bed. Which is what I should do. I should be a man about this. I should simply say that I am too poorly to do another thing and assume that the world will continue to turn without my involvement. I mean it would, wouldn't it? The children wouldn't go to school or eat or have their bums wiped but the world would still keep on turning. It's a nice dream anyway.
I have to be better by tomorrow because son 2 is going to be a sheep in the pre-school nativity play. Apparently he's going to be singing Blah Blah Blap Bleep (which is his teenage-like scorn for the original Baa Baa Black Sheep). It could be a riveting show.
Meanwhile son 1 gets to be a mouse on Monday in Abbarella, his school Christmas play which combines the story of Cinderella with Abba songs. Being a massive Abba fan, I think this is fabulous, but it's getting a bit weird having our 4 year old poncing around with his hands of his swaying hips singing: Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight. I'm not too sure where the Christmas message fits in here. Perhaps Father Christmas is the man after midnight. Perhaps Mary's donkey is transformed by the fairy godmother into a pumpkin carriage. It's got all the makings of being a toe-tapper, that's for sure.
Anyway, I must go make another lemsip and get another roll of toilet paper to add to my snotty tissue mountain before writing a press release about washable menstrual pads. I know, the glamour of my life never ceases.