In all, I've had a fairly rubbish weekend. Saturday was spent food shopping in a mild mist of rain, which I am now sure hastened the approach of the sickness by gifting upon me damp trousers. By the time evening rolled around my head was beginning to feel stuffy, like a mass of cotton wool. Still, I soldiered through. My mother has instilled within me an ethic that I should work through any illness regardless, no doubt prolonging said illnesses but ensuring that I at least still get some work done.
So it was that I went to work today. I woke up at the hour of seven in the morning, an hour ungodly for Sundays, and spent many hours on my feet at the shop until I was able to finally return home from work and flop onto my bed for five in the afternoon, exhausted.
'Wine,' I thought. 'Wine make things good.'
I had half a bottle of wine in my bedroom left over from a few days before. I still have some now, sitting beside my bed. It is a very good wine.
While I sipped at my fermented grape juice and listened to Sophie Madeleine songs (remember, I only barely qualify as a 'man'), I felt the need for some chocolate accompaniment.
'I will go get some chocolate,' I thought, and stood up to enact this fiendish plan of mine.
As I did so, the combination of mild alcohol intake, sudden movement and head cold brought about a head rush that made the room sway uncomfortably. I gripped the sides of my head, adopting a power stance to steady myself but that just made things worse. I groped, stumbled and hopped until I reached my bedroom door, my head still swimming in cotton wool and nonsense.
'No. No this cannot be. I must have my chocolate!'
My bedroom door is three foot away from my bed.
In the end, I gave up and sat back down to calm myself. I have not moved for forty minutes. I did not get chocolate, and now I fear I never will.