Things are going curiously well with The Irishman. I still don't quite know if I'm dating him or stalking him, but we're accidentally spending a lot of time together.
Sounds romantic, doesn't it? But I've caught his cold. And it's naasty.
It's like John and Yoko's Week In Bed, only with worse hair and more lemsip.
It's tough to talk interestingly about being ill. The main problem is that you move between the hot sweats and the cold sweats. So the Irishman will be in bed boiling alive in his boxer shorts, and i'll be next to him, wrapped up in a jumper and a fleece, teeth chattering.
We tried doing interesting things, which turned into shopping for pants ("Um, are you sure you're a small?"), an attempt to buy a toaster ("Did you want a toaster?" "No. Did you?" "No." "So why are we here?"), and then some soup.
It took 40 minutes for the soup to arrive. It was solid, the colour of pond, and stone cold. The Irishman hadn't eaten for three days. He gave up.
The Irishman's had a nasty old week, and now has to teach lots and lots of children.
I get another day of watching Hitchcock films and throwing up Night Nurse.
I was supposed to be in London, at fabulous parties and seeing lovely old friends. Instead I've discovered the only way not to encounter "Two Pints of Lager" on NTL is to say aloud "I'd really like to see Two Pints of Lager, you know."