It's the middle of the summer. Today is a beautiful day, just like it should be: warm golden sunshine, clear blue skies, and I have three days off, all together. I should be frolicking on the beach, or writing in the park.
But I am not. Why? Because I have a cold.
Late last night some evil pixie snuck in through my window and replaced my brain with cotton wool, glued sand to the inside of my throat and turned the mucus tap on somewhere just above my nostrils. Oh and I think they tinkered with my lungs too, but they've always been outta whack.
I sat down to work on my entry for Jack Rubberchicken's Summer Prose Competition, because I though 'Hey, at least I should be able to bash out a coherent thread for the thing. I'll fill in the blanks a later, when I feel better.' But can I? Can I hell.
I thought, 'Maybe some chores will be okay, something light like laundry,' (cuz heaven knows it needs to be done, they can smell the socks all the way up there). So I carried a load, dumped in in the wash, sat down and got woke up by the machine telling me it's done.
Last night was filled with such promise; I felt great! Planned today out just so, was gonna get so much done, be a domestic goddess and all that shnizzle. But, well... Of the all the things on my to-do list, how many did I accomplish today? Just about a whole load of nothing.
Being sick sucks.