I am sick
Je suis malade
Ik ben siek
Ich bin krank
Sorry, I got sick today, so marking of yesterday's Surprise Test is still in a pile on the corner of my desk. (I do not have a desk) I should probably have realised something was wrong when I spent 20 minutes lying on the floor of the bedroom when I should have been getting dressed this morning, or even when I starting crying on the tram for no reason. But no, I insisted on going all the way to the office to lie on the floor of the ladies wrapped in my coat and cry. Truly, I am employee of the month. And blogger of the month, since despite the fact I have nothing to offer but the written equivalent of a death rattle, I am determined to blog for you. Yes! The show must go on, even if the 'show' is about as much fun as the stomach flu itself.
Since getting home, I have been alternating sleeping, weeping, shouting at the dog (who, not content with the lovebombing of the weekend, has taken up peeing in the house again) and projecting myself gloomily into a future where I die alone and unmourned. Normal sick day activities. Where is my manservant (I don't mean that in a gender specific way, any gender of domestic operative would be welcome) to bring me small glasses of water and deal with the ceaseless demands for attention from the domestic animal and maybe mop the floor which has mystifyingly got dirty again?
Talking of dirty floors, here are my Top Five Domestic Irritations of the moment:
1. That non-slip rug underlay that doesn't work. Fuck off, Ikea, you useless bastards. Finding the rugs bunched up in the corner of the room after the dog or children have been chasing something is giving me serious stabbiness.
2. The dog's insistence on excavating its food bowl in the hope that something better is hiding underneath, spreading vomitously disgusting dog croquettes all over the kitchen where I then have to sweep them up with my dustpan and brush that oh yes! The weepette has chewed up.
3. I cannot be emptying the vacuum cleaner right, since the only way I seem to be able to do it is with a teaspoon. I know this cannot be right, yet every time I try and work out what I am doing wrong I get terrified of breaking it and back off. The spoon is fine! Sort of.
4. The downstairs loo, which in the past 3 months has received the whole contents of the household cleaning aisle at Carrefour many times over, still smells like someone died in there.
5. More generally the house smells funny. No amount of Diptyque candles, lavender oil, Savon de Marseille floor cleaning stuff seems to make a difference. It smells slightly of masala lamb chops, slightly of some very horrible sickly polish used once on the wooden floors, slightly of the downstairs loo of despondency. The old house smelled of woodsmoke, due to the CFO's blind worship at the shrine of his open fire. It's a lot nicer. Somehow, however, I don't think introducing a top note of burning into the mix is going to help.
Obviously, I throw this open to anyone who wishes to share their domestic irritations too. I am going to lie in a darkened room with my self-pity to keep me warm.