Thursday, December 16, 2010
I've only been sick once since being here.
And it was hard to shake. Two weeks of endless nose scraping, aches and pains, talking like Janice on Friends, is enough to turn anyone insane.
Perhaps it's the pollution in London, or rather, just that you're constantly walking in it. Fumes and other crazy shit that sits in your sinuses all day, means it takes ages to get better.
So since then, I have been almost obsessively fastidious about not getting sick. I wear my gloves everywhere I need to touch a public railing, I wash my hands double the amount I used to, I eat my 5 a day, plus freshly squeezed OJ. I smoke less.
In fact, my cigarette consumption has but halved since living here. I can't smoke anywhere inside, and it's so dogs balls freezing outside that it kind of takes the joy out of puffing away.
I have filled this void with sausages.
As one is ought to do.
Anyway, so I've been extra duperdee duperdee vigilant about germs. It's become a little personal project of mine. Operation: How Long I Can Not Get Sick For.
I obsess about it. And then I eat cookies.
I ache to swab down the escalator railing at Waterloo Station and see what kind of cummy, gonorrhearical, anthraxy kind of filth rests thereon, and thence lie smug in the knowledge that my hands don't have any of this shit on them.
By now, you should know where this is headed.
I woke up this morning and realised I was ever so slightly phlegmmy. My throat is sore, my lungs feel a little heavy, my nose is runny, my head aches.
Ever seen an OCD person who is about to travel to the Land of Schnitzel get pissed off?
The Brit is also feeling sick.
Which means we might just be room servicing ourselves with gluwein and schnitzel, in bed, on Flu Caps.
And then get eaten by neo-Communists in Slovakia thereafter.
Fuck. My plan has been foiled.
Oh. Oh and another thing: I have a mole on my back that has changed shape, texture and colour.
I am terrified. What do I do now? How does one 'register' for a dermatologist here?