A few weeks before Easter, I was struck down with a horrible, unrelenting bout of flu. I was bed-bound for the first three days, sleeping for upwards of 18 hours of the day, only waking up when the painkillers ceased working. I drank pints upon pints of squash, all the variations of tea and honey I could muster from our extensive tea cupboard, and had a concoction of fresh lemons and ginger on the boil almost constantly. I couldn’t believe how much my body ached, and I was astounded at how painful a throat can actually be!
I hadn’t felt this rubbish since I had tonsillitis towards the end of 2012, when I discovered that doctors won’t give you meds for tonsillitis unless you go back to them after five days, begging, to prove that your immune system hasn’t just automatically beaten the bugger of an infection. This time though, I knew it was ‘only’ flu. I didn’t haul my tired arse out of the house in an attempt to get any kind of medical attention – only partly because the registration period at the local doctor’s surgery meant I wouldn’t get seen until May. But this meant that, after three days off work and a weekend spent dosed up on Ibuprofen and Lemsip, come Monday, I really had to go back to work. I had virtually no voice and still felt like hell, but rules is rules. The boss needed me back.
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