Still ill

The title says it all, really. I’ll still ill. Oh, so very ill. Send flowers! And also: Haribo Mix. Just because.

On Tuesday, when I last posted here, I was actually feeling like the cold was maybe on the way out, but I was clearly just delirious at the time, because by about 6pm yesterday I was feeling like I’d been run over by a truck, several times, and I was forced to go and lie on the bed, moaning piteously, and waiting for death to come and claim me as his own.

I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe through my nose. I can’t stop sneezing. My eyeballs hurt. Last night, I was forced to spend the best part of an hour lying on the bed with two twists of loo roll stuck up my nostrils, like tusks, because my nose would just not STOP RUNNING. I am in hell, people. In hell. (You see what I meant about me getting the cold worse than other people? Or being a helluva lot more dramatic about it, in any case.)

All of this clearly sucks, but it sucks even more because here’s the thing: when you’re self-employed you just can’t get ill. You really can’t. When you have a “normal” job and you wake up dying, most of the time you can just call in sick and some other poor sod has to take care of your urgent tasks while you recline on a chaise longue in a silk wrap, eating chocolates (because as we all know, calories consumed while ill totally don’t count) and looking pale, yet beautiful.  Wait, I’m getting real life confused with black and white movies again… You get to do all of that, anyway, but without the chaise longue, silk wrap or the “beautiful”. And with a lot of screwed up, snotty tissues, some Lemsip, and very greasy hair. As I said, it sucks, but hey, it’s still better than being at work, (I had some REALLY bad jobs before I decided to start working from home) and this is your consolation as you lie there working your way through a family sized bar of Dairy Milk and wondering if Terry would go out and get you a Big Mac. (See: calories consumed while ill don’t count, above)

When you’re self-employed, though, none of this applies. Because if you don’t haul ass to the computer (and yes, the computer could come to you in your sick bed, but as anyone who has ever tried to work in bed will tell you, after about an hour of that, your butt starts to get REALLY sore and you want to die.) and get the work done, the work will just not get done. No poor, put-upon colleague will step in to do your share of the work while muttering that you’re probably just faking it; no temp will arrive to shoulder the burden for you and change all the passwords on your computer while you’re gone. The work will just NOT GET DONE. And then you will not get paid. And you will lose your house, your car and your sanity and have to go to the workhouse. OMG!

So, basically, instead of lying in bed eating chocolate and being waited on hand and foot, you get to lie there in a cold sweat with two toilet paper tusks sticking out of your nostrils, thinking, “OMG, if I don’t update my website today, all of my readers will disappear and NEVER COME BACK and that will totally be the end of my pro-blogging career and I’ll have to go and work in a call centre and be verbally abused all day, and finally die without ever having made enough money to buy a pony, The End.”

Then you drag yourself out of your sick bed and you stagger to your computer and you force yourself to crank out a bunch of useless posts, in some of which you will mis-type the word “shoes” as “hoes”, which let me tell you, is a Very Bad mistake to make.

First, though, you will take the time to write this “poor me” entry, so that people will know to feel sorry for you and to send you Haribo mix. Now, if you’ll excuse me, folks, I have to go replace my Toilet Paper Tusks (TM).