I’ve been a bit quiet here since Dr Sketchy’s; there’s a reason for that. Even though it was the models who took their clothes off- it was me that caught the cold.
Combined with trying to keep on top of the various things I willfully commit myself too (through no other reason that I can’t bear to miss out on anything), something had to give. So the blog suffered (as did I).
The annual experience of a virus put me in mind of this poem I wrote a few years ago during my 8 year stint as a regular columnist for Next Magazine. Feel free to print it out and stick it to your medicine cabinet. Irritatingly, backyard P manufacturers have made it almost impossible to buy anything with pseudoephedrine in it across the counter without a police check first. I worry constantly that the boys in blue will come knocking at my door because we’ve had 4 packets over as many weeks. Who wants to get high? I just crave a clear head!
The Cold War
This really can't be happening,
I don't believe it's true,
Yet all the signs are looming
Yes…I've got the bloody 'flu.
I thought it was a hangover,
From the wine I drank last night,
Alcohol can make you sick,
And I'm pretty crook all right.
My muscles ache from head to toe,
My throat is lined with sand,
The pounding brain inside my head,
Sure needs a helping hand.
I'm reaching for the garlic now;
I don't go much for drugs,
Orange juice and propolis,
Will fight off winter bugs.
But just in case they don't work fast,
I'll slip in Panadol,
Coldrex, Coldral, Benadryl,
And two Orthoxicol.
Having covered all my bases,
I think I'll now retire,
From work, the kids, my husband too,
And quietly expire!