I write this from my deathbed.
Well, not quite. But, having felt rotten all week, I’ve decided to take a day off work to try and shake off this cold once and for all. Fionnuala, wonderful wife that she is, has promised to make me soup and my bedside table is crammed with liquids, tissues and paracetamol. My colleagues will undoubtedly be delighted that my sniffling, sneezing self won’t be in the office to infect them all.
I’m hoping that a day’s rest will resurrect my flagging spirits. There has been no running so far this week so my marathon schedule continues to gallop into the horizon, without me in harness. I reckon I can still make it as long as this current bout of illness is the last one between now and the big day in May. Today I can barely run a tap, let alone the thought of 26.2 miles.
I’m also conscious of infecting the rest of the family. The last thing my super busy wife needs are my germs and the kids similarly; Adam has a big rugby match at the weekend, Hannah a science test next week, and Rebecca is just over a tummy bug. It’s bad enough being ill myself, without the added guilt of striking down one of my nearest and dearest. Hopefully 24 hours of self enforced quarantine will do the trick.
If I can get caught up on some sleep today, that would be a bonus. I also plan to read a little and continue my never ending research of literary agents I aim to query with the book. I may even blog a little update later. Until then any comments would be most welcome to lift my spirits and alleviate the boredom. You can even call round later with a bunch of grapes or bottle of Lucozade. I promise not to sneeze over you.