I dragged myself to work this morning only to be sent back home before 8am. I was told I looked pale and sickly and that nobody wanted my germs anyway so I should just go home. And so here I am, once again, basking in the dubious delights of daytime TV. Except this time I am not sick enough to ignore its awfulness. A few minutes ago Phil and some woman who wasn't even Fern oohed and arred as every single black dress available on the high street was paraded down a wobbly make-shift catwalk. As I type the ladies on Loose Women are eating scorpion ice-cream and caramelised tarantula. At least with this there is the possibility of some sort of deadly allergic reaction to mix things up a bit.
It is very strange to be working somewhere where the boss genuinely seems to care about the health of his staff. I am used to being expected to turn up even if my arm is hanging off. Or even worse, working for minimum wage with no sick pay so that not turning up wasn't an option. Today I am feeling very lucky.
A weird side-effect of this bug seems to be a heightened sense of smell. The first 2 days I couldn't even stand to think about food, never mind smell it. Today my whole flat stinks of the garlic that Liam Theroux put in his bolognese last night and the smell of the cheese in the fridge is overwhelming. Please don't get me started on how the stench of damp commuter made me feel on the bus this morning.
Right it's time for me to go and commit myself to an afternoon of Neighbours watching. Just so you know, Coleen Nolan made it through the extreme tasting session alive. Sorry about that.