Reasons why no one has seen Fran out of doors for days
I didn't sleep Thursday night; I think I had a fever. Put it this way, one minute the duvet felt as though it were as thin as tissue paper and I was shivering; the next it felt like a flock of sheep had herded into my room and lain on top of me, making me sweat shed loads. I got aches and pains all over as though I'd been shovelling coal for a week, too, and couldn't get comfortable in bed.
So, yesterday morning, which was Friday, I rang in sick and left cover work for my classes. I spent the day sneezing, which didn't help the aches and pains. I don't know if you've ever spent a day sneezing. It's not exactly major suffering, but I wouldn't compare it to a day wandering around an art gallery in Paris, if you know what I mean. My foster parents were meant to be coming round for the evening, but we cancelled so that they didn't catch colds for Christmas. We agreed that they would come to the door and my husband would swap presents with them so they didn't have to enter the House of Horror. I texted them and said that when I heard the doorbell I would wave feebly from the upper window like an 18th century consumptive, but I forgot. Hell. Why, when I get a chance to shine at drama, do I always mess up?
Today, I didn't even get out of my pyjamas. The aches and pains had gone, but the cold itself, which I thought I'd already had, arrived properly with a vengeance. I had to cancel two private lessons I was meant to teach; one so hates to intersperse quality tutoring about metaphor in literature with coughing up one's guts over a paying customer.
|That's twenty-five pounds for the lesson, please, and an extra five pounds|
for the virus
What I have done today, though, is write another couple of thousand words of a new novel I'm working on. That I could do in between episodes of blowing my nose so loud that next door probably think we're watching the beginning of Titanic, when the ship leaves port, over and over again.
Now, I'm really into the novel and I don't want to stop. So, what's the betting that tomorrow I'll spring out of bed with not so much as a sniffle and will have to rejoin normal life and leave my characters sitting in the living room, eating a box of Milk Tray, drinking too much red wine, and wondering whether to go to the police about what they've discovered?