Last week, I succumbed to a microscopic super-bug. Not only did it successfully incapacitate me for a week, but it also made me feel emotionally fragile.
I was so close finishing a 92,000 edit when I woke up one morning feeling like someone had been massaging my tonsils with sandpaper during the night. Twenty-four hours later, I was flat on my back, every inch of my aching body having surrendered to a micro-beast. 🤒
During my supine week, the fug in my head made it difficult to process most things, let alone finish the edit. I did still retain the brainpower to operate the TV remote, but everything I watched made me cry.
I wept about Megan and Harry, leaving dear old blighty for Canada, in between binge-watching The Crown, when I started crying every time Hanz Zimmer’s powerful theme tune started playing. My depression wasn’t entirely focussed around the factual and fictional goings-on within our Royal Family, because I finished my first box of man-sized tissues watching Notting Hill, for the umpteenth time. Puppy dog Hugh Grant and his floppy fringe always did it for me in 1999, and still does 20 years on.
I tried sleeping off the bastard bug but, sleep eluded me as I sweated out the virus, while agonising about when I was going to get around to finish editing my 92,000 words.
I am glad to report that, as soon as swatted the minibeast, I finished my edit remarkably quickly. So to anybody currently suffering from the ‘flu, or another miserable virus, I am living proof that there is life beyond the bastard bug. I hope you get well soon.