I have the ‘flu. There’s something sadly woeful about having a head filled with snot, a puffy, pale face, aches and pains, glazed eyeballs and a hacking cough.
Yesterday I felt so bloody sorry for myself.
It all started at Dischem. On trying to furtively and distractedly search for Med Lemon Original. Swabbing my sweaty brow whilst combing the shelves like an A-type personality gone psycho, I couldn’t find it. And had to settle for Med Lemon Berry Concoction-Uncharacteristically-Bad-Tasting-Not-Cool stuff instead.
I almost started crying. Then I couldn’t find the Corenza C either. Had I gone blind? And, in my sorry state, didn’t feel like making small talk with the assistant because the last time I was there I was as equally irate after being the last person on Earth to find out that Nivea Shimmering Body Lotion had been pulled from the shelves. There was a scene. I took the news like Carol the Cow takes the news of taking a vacation at the abattoir. Not well. I grabbed some Cal-C-Vita instead, and got the fuck outta there.
I wanted my mum. To mop my brow from the existing and unsightly sweat brewing on it, feed me hot broth and tell me I’m the most amazing child ever to be conceived. Instead, I had to settle for the euphemistically soothing sounds of Elana Africa deejaying from the balmy shores of Zanzibar blaring from my radio as I fitfully slept and worried about the four major stories I need to submit before Monday next week.
I hate staying home because I’m sick. Usually, even if my arm is barely dragging behind my body from a thread – God forbid – or I have contracted an untimely and inconvenient bout of leprosy, I’d rather go to work with it. Seriously. I feel like I’m missing out and wasting an entire day moping around. So, high on Med Lemon Berry Blast, I refolded all my clothes in my cupboard. When I say refolded, I actually mean folded for the first time. Most of my clothes from over the last month are at the bottom of the cupboard covering my shoes, or on chairs, in suitcases, on my bed, hanging from the roof. Then I put the ones I don’t wear anymore into a bag ready to deliver to the cleaning-genius hands that are our maid Pretty’s.
I ate nine Zoo biscuits, made hot, yet disappointingly bland vichyssoise soup, only to pass out in a pool of sweat and delirium. Healthy.
All while it rained and howled with wind outside, what is to be the start of August in Johannesburg. The month where we supposedly slip into Spring, while leaves blow hot and cold everywhere. I’m unconvinced.