Being ill is brilliant. It involves sofa, duvet and endless DVD. It means cracking open the whisky at 10am, cos it's medicinal. It means poor personal hygiene, endless pizza, and sleeping wherever and whenever, cos you're ill.
Being not-quite-ill is rubbish. I've now had a fortnight of it. A whole fortnight of fevers, a hatred of booze and fags, listlessness, and pounding, mashing headaches.
It's frankly boring. Especially when the pain begins at 5.30am. Which means three solid hours of banging pain before work. Which means three hours of squinting at CSI through an ice pack and sunglasses. Bah.
I went and bought a thremometer. It was a Boots toddler forehead thermometer. It told me I was dead. Or, on closer reading of the packet, over the age of six.
Seeing an NHS Doctor in Cardiff involves a special magic I just don't possess. But now, something must be done.
Why? Apart from it destroying my social life, it's got irritating. Yesterday, I developed The Cough. I've had several coughs in my life. The worst was the one where I cracked ribs. But yesterday's cough had a whole new timbre to it.
"Goodness," I thought as I hacked away on the bike ride home, "It's almost as though I'm coughing hard enough to -"
And then I threw up.