Mercifully, this morning I feel in significantly better health than yesterday when I turned in at 8.30pm. A time when loosening catarrh caused my nose to stream so extravagantly I was in need of the nasal equivalent of the Hoover Dam.
Sadly, as there’s no such this as the nasal version of the Hoover Dam, I was forced to stem the mucus flow with four boxes of Kleenex tissues and, when she wasn’t looking, my wife’s sweater sleeve…….. I’d have used my own, but I prefer my pullover arms to be snot free. Karen probably does as well, but doesn’t read my blogs so if you don’t say owt I won’t!
It’s rare I succumb to cough, cold and flu bugs, consequently this cold virus blindsided me to such an extent, in my subsequent hallucinogenic state, I inexplicably googled ‘Where can I get nasal versions of the Hoover Dam?’.
I realise this prose isn’t gonna win a blog version of the Pullitzer Prize. However, if there’s any gongs handed out for crowbarring the two words Hoover Dam into each of the first three paragraphs of a literary piece I might get shortlisted……. Actually, you can now make that the first four!
After an early night and long slumber, during which I perspired profusely due to the bug, I woke covered in sweat. Thankfully, though, my reveille saw me nasally dry and less mentally disorientated.
I’m still bunged up, meaning I was unable to enjoy the aroma of my breakfast bacon grilling. However, the fact yours truly felt up to doing any sort of cooking today (no matter how easy) is an improvement from yesterday. Twenty four hours when I struggled to function beyond writing a disjointed blog, sneezing endlessly and committing tissue genocide.
Consequently, GJ Strachan is hurtling towards the end of a predominantly forgettable 2018 in slightly better fettle than at 8.30pm yesterday.
What will 2019 have in store for me?…… More joyless drudgery on the path I wander?….. Or, something more positive? Such as, karma relinquishing it’s unyielding grip of misery – Concluding I’ve at last served my penance for stealing my brother’s Terrys Chocolate Orange during Christmas 1976.
My thus far eight year sentence hangs like a millstone around my neck. An existence where I enjoy the fruits of physical liberty, but at the cost of emotional incarceration. A seemingly parole-less imprisonment – La liberté, mais à un coût as the French might call it.
As I write, the glass on the dining table in front of me is void of the fresh orange juice I quaffed earlier. A beverage chosen to up my vitamin C levels, aimed at overcoming the remnants of this cold virus.
Although, possibly a clever analogy, it would be melodramatic and incorrect to say this sight sums up today’s mood. By that I mean claiming it’s even worse than glass half empty; currently it’s fully empty. However, that statement would be exaggerating the depth of my low mood. It’s nowhere near that bad!
I’ve so many things to be grateful for, consequently I gonna ensure I yomp into 2019 with a backpack of positive hopes, dreams and Haribo gummy bears.
One of the new years resolutions I do hold is the intention of taking karma’s prolonged incarceration of my emotional health to the European Court of Human Rights. With Brexit being maybe around the corner, though, I gonna have to get my arse in gear!