I'm ill. Poooooooorly. Wah. Grizzle, grumble. Rumours of my death are slightly exaggerated.
I'm getting tired of waking up at four every morning, unable to breathe.
I'm tired of the coughing fits.
I'm tired of so much snot gushing out of my nose that I've abandoned tissues and have taken to using a beach towel.
I'm tired of feeling slightly feverish.
And emotional - I'm sitting here listening to Kirsty MacColl and feeling all weepy.
And my ribs hurt - what's that about?
My eyeballs feel bruised.
My skin feels all prickly, and I seem to have somebody else's hair follicles.
And Ian's joints.
I seem to have somebody else's scrotum, too, twice the size of my own; which would be nice apart from the fact it's hanging half-way down to my knees. My testicles seem to be trying to get as far away from my body as they can - and I don't blame them.
I feel fat and puffy - I'd say I was retaining water were it not for the fact I have to pee every ten minutes.