Sunday, 4 January 2015
Of Mice and Man Flu . . . . .
As some or possibly none of you will know. . . No some of you will because I have let it be known, I am suffering slightly with Man Flu. Now I could do the true brit stiff upper lip thing as say. . . ITS only a mere scratch and will not make a bit of difference and soldier on, but hey I’m a man (O YES I AM) with Man Flu so I have decided that is not the thing to do. I mean what will the other chaps with Man Flu say if I let the side down and don’t turn into a gibbering idiot talking complete nonsense while crashed out in a cosy chair drinking tea, eating left over Christmas Chocolate Santa’s and maybe watching mindless television while groaning that only another chaps understand Man Flu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Actually I might avoid the mindless television; I am not quite that bad yet.
So I have decided to write a delirious blog post as my brain drifts in and out of its battle with this highly underrated (by anyone who is not a chap) affliction that us chaps get. My first problem though is how do I known I am delirious or not, it’s not as simple as it might appear. I have tried shouting Aaaaauuugghhh no get it away from me its terrible all those legs and pointy teeth, but it was made very clear that there was nothing with legs or pointy teeth anywhere to be seen and my rambling argument that it is hiding under the sofa was met with YOU ARE AN IDIOT rather than you are a delirious genius with Man Flu I will get you more tea and some cake. . .
As for the cats they are rubbish and as sympathetic as a cat who is hungry and wants his dinner. . . I have told the cat he can eat the terrible thing under the sofa with pointy teeth and many many legs. But no it wants his proper food and not the cheap stuff but the posh stuff in a clean bowl served using a silver spoon while I overt my eyes from his looks of anger.
I’m sure that there is some terrible thing under the sofa I will groan loudly and point a finger in a pathetic way at the remains of a party popper sticking out and indicate that I think the terrible thing is making a nest and is out to get me while I am weak and feeble-ish.
As for drawing well there is no chance of a fresh drawing until my arms return to their original weight and I am able to lift them more than a few inches. I have asked for a straw saying that my mug does not reach my mouth due to some alien force field or I may have been bitten by that beast under the sofa. It appears these are not good things to tell the local doc at the end of a phone when they ask for symptoms, and a useful tip for other chaps is don’t tell a female doctor that its OK for her she cant get Man Flu so will never truly understand. . . I mean Paracetamol what sort of a response is that. . . . . . . .
AAAAUUUGHHHH No its on the ceiling now and glowing at me with its terrible eyes and it is posed to pounce or leap or maybe drop onto my head and suck my brains out . . . . . . AAuuuuuuggghhhhhh. . . . .
WHAT . . . . Ceiling light, I can’t believe that the next thing I’ll get told is that the switch on the wall will turn it out . . . . . . WOW it did . . . or maybe it didn’t and I am in a delirious state and it really is some beast with glowing eyes about to attack
Aaaaaauugghhhh I think I need more tea and Christmas Chocolate Santa’s . . . .
Groan . . . and a straw. . . . . . and a piece of cake with hundreds and thousands on. . . . and I cant quite reach the TV remote.