Still battling my way through the cotton-wool haze of a skullnumbingly dull cold. It's spread really nicely and thoroughly to my lungs now, and has also pitched two tents on my nose.
Tent A sits on my septum, and Tent B sits below my nostril. Two lovely cold sores, which takes the ominous task of blowing one's nose from mechanical to excruciating.
I slept upright last night, propped up on pillows and insanity, wheezing. What a sight for sore eyes.
And it is with this glazen-eyed look we embark on our long weekend to France tomorrow morning, before the dawn breaks.
Nothing - but nothing - is going to stop our road trip to the country which boasts a moped-trysting president who runs his ship by the seat of his balls - nothing, I tell you.
If it means I don't have to be at home in the dust, or at work under fluorescent lights, then frankly, a four hour journey to a chateau in the Alsace with my husband is a piece of gateau. The doctor practically wrote out the prescription.
Before I go, a thought to ponder as we load the car with food, additional pillows and a playlist that kicks so much shitbox.
There are posters on the back of our company toilet cubicles that say, "29 Jan! Diarise! Wear Your Onesie To Work Day!"
Now, I'm all for adult-sized babygrows. Don't get me wrong. I have a leopard print one at home which I save for days when I'm
The thing is, onesies are really just pyjamas, OK. Let's cut this down. They're an all-in-one pyjama glove.
It's become acceptable in some societies to wear pyjamas outside sometimes. In the UK, (Dagenham anyone?), in some of the deeper corners of the United States, and maybe in northern Finland where the clothes are crafted from reindeer hides and look like onesies even if they're not.
I have worn my pyjamas outside on two occasions that I can remember:
1) When I ran away from home when I was 15, for two hours, and spent that time hidden under a bush. I left the house wearing my 101 Dalmatian Pyjamas and didn't think it through.
2) Some ten years after that, I left the house wearing the same set of pyjamas (just couldn't let them go. Eventually my mother found and burned them) when I was drunk and had midnight munchies with the flatmate, so throught we would just pop across the road in our nightwear.
Times - and standards - might I add - have changed.
Anyway, the point is, as this is a special occasion where everyone is encouraged to come into work wearing a onesie, sit at their desks, take important calls and be equally ridiculed, I'd be totally down. Sign me the fuck up. I just can't fit into mine, so won't be able to join in the pyjamary fun.
The thought has crossed my mind to go to Primark and claim myself a plus size XXL onesie, but ain't nobody wanna see that, surely.
This is what I quite love about Britain. Generally, no one really bats an eyelid when they see someone outside in their pyjamas. You'll find at least one person stumble into an off-license at some time in the night to buy milk in their flannels.
They're usually the same type of person that wears grey tracksuit joggers to work everyday, and pulls their hair into a tight greasy bun so entitled the Croydon Facelift, but nonetheless, it is something people do here.
However, what's great is that while people might nip out in the pyjamas, they are also in equal measures still judged. Society hasn't completely fallen apart at the soft, cottony seams just yet, thank God.
While you may be able to get away with wearing anything here, there's still a vast amount of arbitration at play.
There are still standards to be met, and I still live in a country where it's acceptable and relished to wear a tweed blazer every day.*
To boringly conclude: onesies are now so mainstream, places of work are organisning onesie-offs.
*The third best reason for living here.