Déjà Flu

Well, well, well.
Just when I thought I had ticked the box of ‘winter cold’ for this year an evil, mucusy force possessed me and my lungs and I’ve been bed bound for a good four days now.
In a way it’s allowing me to be the pensioner that deep down I truly am. I’m propped up in bed with three pillows like a Nana, I’ve got a milky tea, a rattle in my chest and a hankie up my sleeve.
All that’s missing is my teeth in a jar next to the bed and I’d have the full caboodle.

The real tragedy in the tale is that I will be missing my works Christmas do for a consecutive second year.

Last year I also had a stonking cold which meant that the hotel room I paid for was wasted (as in unused, it didn’t get on the shots without me), the dress I bought still to this day has the tags on and I will never know what a certain regional manager with scary eyes looks like on the dance floor after a Drambuie or three.
I feel alright, but the thought of standing around mingling with colleagues in a ball gown when my nose is so red, dry and peeling it looks like a Paper Mache Tracy Island gone wrong just fills me with dread and anxiety.
I can imagine the beads of sweat meandering down my face and onto my sweetheart neckline on my gown and creating little snail trails of moisture for everyone to see. When fashionistas say ‘accentuate to your neckline’ I’m pretty sure they don’t mean with germ infused perspiration.
The looks, the blatant avoidance of my company as I breathe, cough and mop my brow.
I would discreetly sniff and a rumble so loud would come out of my nose it would sound like someone was drilling dry wall in the room.
No.
No way.
Absolutely not.
Nobody wants to be the guy who uses their dinner napkin to blow their nose.
Or the person who loudly coughs into a tissue when a head of department is making a ‘thanks for your hard work’ speech to a large team of people, who are now all staring at you in disgust and questioning if the cause of that hacking cough is a 60 a day habit.

The worst part is (yes it does get worse) I’m so bunged up it’s incredibly difficult to eat with my mouth closed for longer than three seconds without having to gasp for breath.
This would result in two possible outcomes at the Christmas do;

  1. My colleagues witnessing the slowest consumption of Salmon en Croute in the history of the world as I take teeny oxygen allowing nibbles of my meal.
  2. My colleagues witnessing the ENTIRE PROCESS of the consumption of Salmon en Croute within my mouth as I can’t breathe with it shut. Yeah, exactly, minging!All the embarrassing eventualities that probably won’t happen probably will happen.
    I’ll go to grab my clutch bag to hit the dance floor and a steady stream of wet tissues will propel from my bag – like a magician with one of those long brightly coloured scarves. A small bottle of Vicks and a menthol nasal stick will crash to the floor in front of the CEO.
    One of the tissues may even stick to his shoe.
    Then I would have to bend down to get it and let out a parp because the creamy sauce on the en croute hasn’t gone down well.
    I would then sweat even more out of embarrassment and my perfectly penciled eyebrows would slowly start making their way to the nearest exit (my chin) in a very orderly manner.
    Then Monday at work I’m the girl who eats with her mouth open and has an eyebrow on her chin.And no, I do not think that is being dramatic!
    This is perfect (painkiller induced) rationality. I’m off to bed.

Sarah

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