To have a cold and be jolly miserable, at least that’s how the song goes in our household. I cannot remember a year when either husband or myself has not spent the bulk of the Christmas holidays languishing on the sofa surgically attached to a box of tissues and feeling sorry for ourselves.
This year it’s my turn, having managed to produce one of the finest snot producing, eye watering colds for a very long time. I would like to imagine that I’m on the chaise looking wan and interesting like a 1930’s diva when in reality I know that wrapped in a duvet I look like a blotchy silk worm lava if they ever grew to be over 5ft in size and had a racking old man’s cough.
Our friends have disappeared quicker than a box of Rennie on Boxing Day on hearing about me being sick with the sound of closed doors and rescinded invitations ringing loudly in our ears. Even husband is treating the lounge like an isolation unit putting his head around the door to tell me that he’s left provisions on the counter.
It seems that just when you think you have time off to dress up, drink like a drain and enjoy all the lovely grub that comes with this custard guzzling, chocolate scoffing season the universe has other ideas and says ‘No, what you really need is a few days of bed rest with a splitting sinus headache, aching limbs and a very bad temper to truly appreciate your holiday’. I mean what good is struggling through a Christmas dinner that you can’t taste – no good at all for a roast dinner lover like myself.
I am hoping that by Friday I will be sufficiently recovered to hurl myself into the party spirit with inappropriate abandon, until then my pity-party will have to be the only one I attend and console myself that whilst I may not look like a diva I can still bemoan my fate like one, now where did I leave my lace edged hankie …