The 12 steps (less 8)

I am ill.

Well, to be slightly more to the point, I have she-flu (like bitch tits but not as funny).

It all started with an ominous sore throat and has gone downhill from there. As a result I've missed out on many an Xmas frollic and party and am feeling quite like a leper. It's all this time on my own you understand.

I have gone through the classic stages:

Denial

'No, this can't be happening to me, I've got so much to do, perhaps a small crisp has been lodged in my throat and I am in fact 100% fighting fit and healthy'

Anger

'It's this poxy f**king commuting that's done it. Being surrounded by stupid, greying middle aged men with substandard immune systems, sneezling, sniffling and coughing in my direction....w**kers, the lot of them.

Grief

This happened on Friday when I accused my boyfriend of not caring that I was practically on my death bed (hence the she-flu) and proceeded to cry unabashedly for 30 minutes (and I threw in some whinging and whining for good measure). 3 hours later flowers appeared proving that said boyfriend did care. Or that he had indeed put my crying on hold, speed dialled interflora and asked for 'the usual' (i jest, flowers were gorgeous).

Boredom.

This is happening today. I am sooooo bored it's untrue. I could embark on some present wrapping but it's too much like hard work. I could write some Christmas cards, but I have lost the ability to write. I could go and meet Dan for lunch? OR I could lie on the sofa and watch 'allo 'allo re-runs.

Despite my near death experience over the weekend, you'll all be pleased to know that I managed with the help of my dear friend ibuprofen, to take in the arsenal vs portsmouth game on saturday, at the Emirates (platinum hospitality though so no mingling with the 'turnstyle' people) and also spend a small fortune in Selfridges
on Sunday,completing my shopping for the festive season.

The highlight though, amidst all of the snot, and tissues and hacking, was the premiere of Jonathan Shipley and Dave Miller's new film, 'Flash Gordon'. A bittersweet portrayal of our bumbling and very loveable friend Sam. And what did Sam do to ensure his street cred was in tact?

Pick up a small, plastic replica guitar, and 'rock out' to a game aimed at 5-9 year olds.

Sam. We salute you.