This serves as both my Wednesday update, and my sick note for Sunday. However, I’d be lying if I said my neglect was down to purely illness. While I consider an addiction to Pretty Little Lairs an unhealthy affliction, I think it would be stretching it to call my current state an “illness”.

I make my apology with no pledge to amend my behaviour – at least not until I find out who this drongo A is.

I don’t care how much critics may slam this show, I need to know and I refuse to resort to spoilers.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, July 6, 2107

I really wish I had an exciting story for you this week.

I’d like to tell you about how I ate a burrito the size of a newborn baby and got my photo plastered on a restaurant’s wall of fame in the process. I’d like to regale you all with the glorious moments that led up to the time I did a shooey with a former member of One Direction. Heck, I’d even be happy giving you a detailed account about how an ibis touched my face and the sheer filth of the situation prompted me to projectile vomit right into the path of businessmen wearing loafers that cost more than my car (given the fact my dear old Camry was eventually sold off for a hundred bucks, that wouldn’t be hard).

But I have none of those tales for you. Because none of that happened.

I didn’t get to tick off any of those life goals – well, the first two would be considered life goals. If I go through life having not experienced the ibis run-in, I’ll consider that a life goal achieved.

Nope, no interesting yarns for you.

Because I spent the whole week feeling under the weather.

And not “under the weather” in the standard “someone needs to stop taking just a novelty-length straw and two bottles of Passion Pop to parties”* sense of the phrase.

* Never stop. Don’t listen to them! They don’t get you and they’ll never be your true friends! 

I’m talking “under the weather” as in actually legitimately sick. My throat felt like I’d swallowed one of those green scouring sponges without water. My nose was involuntarily expelling liquid without warning. And, weirdly, one of my nostrils constantly had that piercing cold feeling you get when you breathe in while standing outside in the frost – even when I was in a heated room.

Intelligently, I declined the on-the-house flu vaccination my workplace offered, despite living in one of the most populated cities in the Southern Hemisphere. My train line is the one that goes to and from the airport, meaning I’m exposed to all kinds of international travellers and their potential exotic diseases. And still I didn’t sign up for the free flu shot. Not because I’m an anti-vaxer, but because I’m a damned fool (which, not trying to get political or anything, overwhelming evidence would suggest is kind of the same thing).

I simply forgot to sign up for it.

And now I’m on to Day Seven of feeling fluey and I’ve had enough, thank you very much.

I’m writing this now on the couch, where I ended up spending much of my weekend. I’m not kidding; there’s a telling indentation in the cushion, which I’m really hoping will spring back to normal overnight while I’m in bed.

This really stinks, because my housemate went off on holidays this weekend. I had the place to myself and I could have had a wild time.

I don’t have that many friends here in Sydney, but I have enough that I could have had an interpretive dance party. I could have filled the place with metallic balloons, replaced all the light bulbs with blue globes and filled the place with people in unitards. I’m not sure where I would have sourced several skintight one pieces on such short notice, but I could have tried.

What I’m saying is, I could have done something cool with the sound knowledge my housemate wasn’t going to come home and judge me.

Instead, I “celebrated” having the place to myself by watching a two-hour Jane Austen adaptation on Netflix and used the dining table chairs to air-dry my sheets.

And yes, that doesn’t actually sound like a horrible time because I love Alan Rickman and having clean sheets, but that’s not the point.

The point is that I had the opportunity to have a fully sick time and I spent it being actually, not figuratively, sick.

And that sickens me.