I got home on Friday and started to feel a bit shivery. So, I went to bed, hoping I could sleep it off.
A day and a half later, and I've just ventured out into the park with a flask of chamomile tea and a recovering stomach.
It could not be a nicer Spring day. The sun is warm, the bench is in dappled shade, the sky is hazy blue and cloudless. The birds are singing between the trees as though they're just happy to be alive.
I can't stand being ill. It makes me feel so useless, so pathetic. I feel like I'm reduced to a pale shell of myself, incapable of anything other than sleeping, listening to the radio and dashing to the bathroom.
People are nice. They text me to say what I say to them of course: look after yourself, drink lots of water, get plenty of rest. It's good advice but it's horribly boring isn't it?
There was a debate on the radio. Everyone said exactly what you'd expect them to say given their political colours. Then there was sport, sandwiched between all the usual cliches and platitudes. I switched off.
The fresh air is doing me good. I like this time of year: beautifully warm, hopeful and green, and more enjoyable before the hay fever season kicks in.
I don't know how single parents do this - I was no good to anyone yesterday; could I have stumbled through, made dinner without throwing up, got kids ready for whatever it is they were doing, dealt with all the usual family dramas? I doubt it.
Anyway, I'm a little better today. You know, I think these singing birds might have a point.
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