I always knew that romance was bad for you. Ever since I wooed Lisa on Friday night by taking her to Asda for our anniversary, I haven't been quite right. We both woke up on Saturday morning with a sore throat, which I took to be the after-effects of whispering sweet nothings to each other until we were hoarse, but while Lisa's kissing disease cleared up pretty quickly, mine seems to have lingered. Probably because I'm too red-blooded.
I battled my way to East Grinstead on Monday, but despite being in a health centre all day, I only got worse, and by the end of the clinic I was more ill than most of the patients. I returned home with a splitting headache and razor blades in my throat. Which will teach me to be more careful when I shave.
I was no better on Tuesday morning, so reluctantly I phoned in sick. Which isn't easy when it hurts to talk. I was only expecting to be off for a day, so despite still suffering with a headache and sore throat, I phoned the office again in the afternoon and told them I was hoping to be back today. That's what they call tempting fate. Within an hour, my chronic prostatitis, which last flared up in late June (it's so useful having a blog), decided that now would be the perfect time to put in an appearance. I spent the next two hours feeling like I was going through a difficult labour whilst suffering from swine flu.
An afternoon of agony took it out of me somewhat, and as the clock approached 9pm, I went into the bedroom where Lisa was reading a book, and told her that I might need to go to bed early. Five minutes later, I'd fallen asleep in my clothes, and hardly moved for eleven hours.
Suffice it to say, I phoned in sick again today. And then went back to bed. To be honest, I'm barely awake now.