Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Hack Writing

I appear to be afflicted with "Man Flu".

It's not flu, of course. It's just an extremely bad cold. I will, most certainly, live.

But this hasn't stopped the fun at my expense from some of the ladies in my life - especially if I make the mistake of croaking slightly in public. "Ooh dear, got Man Flu, have we? Have a lie down, love, we'll take care of everything..." etc., the tone leaving no doubt as to the unspoken approbation - if I was a woman, I'd be getting on with life.

So, enough. This is bollocks, okay? I haven't slept for nearly three days. I can only breath through half of one nostril. My bone marrow is the temperature of liquid helium, my forehead could be used to fry eggs, and my eyeballs are made of sand. I can hardly complete a sentence without coughing up phlegm. And yet, supposedly, you X:X types could cope with all this, and still complete your tax-return while windsurfing.

No. You. Bastard. Couldn't.

There are big colds, and there are little colds. This is a big one. The windsurfing kind, they're the little ones. Got that? Good.

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