7:30 AM. Time to wake up and welcome the new day. Except my body doesn’t seem to want to. Nor do my eyes and head in particular. Come to think of it, my mind doesn’t want to either.

8:00 AM. Still in bed when Matt comes back from his shower.
“Don’t you think you should come out of bed?”
“Meeeeh…”
“No really, come, I have made you a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee. I want nothing. My head hurts.”
“Please, Cecile…”
“Then why don’t you just fuck off?”
And off to work he goes.

I grumble and think to myself: I’m self-employed so I can sleep a bit more if I want to. I can do whatever I like.

11:00 AM. New thoughts find my brain. I might be ill. I’m sweaty and cold, I have a headache and I’m awfully tired. It seems like a flu has been able to find its way into my body. I decide to get up anyway and I end up wandering around the house like a ghost or zombie or any other creature from a bad quality horror movie.

12:00 AM. To get back to him for leaving me this morning I send an e-mail to Matt stating that he should feel really guilty because I’m horribly ill. Ha-ha, that will teach him.

1:00 PM. Just when I want to shut my laptop and crash on the couch, my mum calls.
“Hi, I don’t know what you and Matt did to the computer yesterday, but Flash doesn’t work anymore…”
My face folds itself into the resemblance of a 90-year-old cynical granny Roald Dahl could have thought up. The last thing I need now is some energy draining computer issue that I don’t understand either. But what we broke we have to fix and so, despite my fever, I try to be the best help desk I can. However, as with most problems with computers, especially damn fuckin’ Flash, it all seemed quite easier than it turned out to be. And after fifteen minutes of ‘try clicking on the orange rectangular’ we give up.

Only after she hangs up I think: Why didn’t I just tell her I was ill? Illness. Something I hate so much I sometimes tend to deny it.

1:30 PM. I throw myself onto the couch to plea for some love from one of our cats. I pat her little head and stroke her furry belly. She purrs. Then she reaches out, grabs me with her claws and scratches my hand.
“Ouch, you damn cat!” I scream while the cat almost flies through the air out of sudden fear.
“If you can’t behave properly, you box of shit, you won’t be having a nice day no more! You stay in our bloody boring hallway, see what you can demolish there!”

And so, deprived from any company, I give up. I surrender to massive amounts of Oprah and Dr. Phil, normally only consumed by housewives, widows and the unemployed.

5:30 PM. Matt comes home. And boy, what good care did he take of me the rest of the night.

Next morning. Unfortunately I am still very ill. And all I can do all day is being a sweaty, smelly, sickening cow on the couch. Being ill is so boring. All the time that I have saved by working so hard and efficiently has now all gone down the drain by a simple fuckin’ flu!

Then Matt suddenly leaves to the kitchen to do the dishes. When he finally returns I start sulking and pouting. He tries to defend himself.
“I’ve been taking care of you for the past 24 hours. I need to do some things for myself as well you know…”
But I soon butt in with my verbal violence.
“What?! How do you think I feel? I’m bloody ruddy bored to death! Don’t you think I too would like to do something for myself?! I don’t mind if you don’t linger around me constantly, but at least give me a fuckin’ puzzle book or switch on the fuckin’ telly for fuck’s sake!” I screech as loud and articulate as my throat allows me.

Some say people turn aggressive by practicing martial arts. Some say it is provoked by violent movies and video games. Others even say it all comes down to genes. I say a simple flu is quite enough.

Column published by Cecile on Monday, April 21st, 2008.

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