For those of you that know me personally or through the viral webs of facebook you’ll have noticed I have been moaning and groaning all week about being struck with some kind of evil brand of flu.
After surviving a 10 hour drinking session on Sunday for one of the yards many Christmas parties, I stumbled into work and did a surprisingly productive days labour with a hangover that could only be cured by an excessive amount of chicken and Redbull. Neither of which was in my possession. I soldiered on and left at 6pm feeling like some kind of hangover super human. This did not last long. I headed off to bed awaiting the week and the final 6 planks to be laid upon Peggotty’s skinny ribs. The deadline was getting closer but I was keeping up despite the fact that know one thought I’d do it.
I woke up on Tuesday morning with 2 necks and 3 chins. My whole face was swollen, I couldn’t swallow or talk. I txt the boss to tell him of the horror and he replied with “Wimp, cya tomorrow”. Little did he know this torture would spread itself over the next 3 days.
I was so so angry, of all the 52 fucking weeks in the year it had to be this one! I had each hour, each day, each week planned within an inch of its existence. All to ensure that Peggaotty would be fully clothed on one side by Christmas. It was the week I was going to prove myself to yard and to everyone else. Loosing these 3 days meant losing the game in my eyes.
Not only am I the worst patient in the world, it’s also completely impossible for me to sit still for more than an hour without the aid of restraints. So here I am angry, sick, starving hungry and still. Just me and Netflix for the foreseeable future. Oh and the guy working on his boat next door. You’ll notice by the following comment that I may have also been mildly irritable. He has just finished top coating the interior and exterior of his tiny tiny narrow boat yet miraculously managed to find something to angle grind for 3 days straight with no breaks. Does the man not even fucking eat! If we’d had been floating, he would have gone over the side.
So to set the scene I was huddled over on the built in leather sofa of my boat which became sticky and sweaty after the first hour due to my temperature resembling some kind of dangerous volcano. The next few days were agony. Not only is being single hard but when you live alone without a sympathetic house mate or a caring mum there is know one to empty your buckets of sick. Me not being the most domesticated type I didn’t have the compulsory cake baking bowl of my childhood to vomit in. Therefore I was surrounded by saucepans full of green sick…for the next 3 days. Desperately trying to ignore the smell as I didn’t have the energy to stand and empty them. I tried to drown my attention in Netflix and its latest crappy drama, which would usually only amuse me if I was either drunk or so exhausted my brain was to tired to realise how crappy it was. The whole thing was like man flu times 10. Every time I tried to swallow it felt like a tiny army of orcs were trying to invade my insides so I gave up and got a separate saucepan to use as a spit bucket so I didn’t even have to swallow my own saliva.
Sleeping was a whole different kettle of fish. I’d wake up every ten minutes drowning in my own spit and aching from head to toe moaning n groaning and wishing my mum was there. Yes I am aware that’s really lame but that just proves how bad I was. It only got worse from here on in.
On day 2 I braved a trip to the walk in centre after days with no food and no water. Fear of dehydration had got the better of me. Sitting in the waiting room amongst parents with screaming children called Hermione, there was me, unwashed, rather feral, fanning myself with a leaflet I later realised was based on genital warts. Sticking out as usual, just my luck. When after an hour n half I finally got to see the nurse. She looked in horror at the back of my throat with audible gasping noises, which did nothing but reassure me of course. She did however provide me with some liquid drugs to be administered with a syringe, by force if necessary. I’m not entirely sure how you can force your own hand down your own throat but I managed it in her room to show her I didn’t need to go to hospital and be put on a drip. This would only mean more time off of work. She also told me I smelt of diesel fumes and asked me where I lived…a nice confidence boost at this point. Cheers chick.
I persevered with the liquid drugs and things began to improve. I finally felt like I could eat so I decided on beans on toast. I felt like a hollow bucket being dragged behind a ship that was lost at sea. I needed food. Venturing to the kitchen I came to the scary realisation that the mum fairy hadn’t come n cleaned up my vomit and I had no saucepans in which to heat my beans. I learnt something from this. Why dirty a pan what does not need to be dirtied. I frantically ripped the paper label of the bean can to avoid a boat fire and placed the can on the hob and heated it in situe. Worked a treat and beans were delivered only moments later. Consuming those beans on toast was probably the highlight of my year. Sadly. They were the step to recovery. Beans on Wednesday. Spit drowning sleep on Thursday and bobs your uncle I’m back at work by Friday! Mission accomplished. I survived with little emotional damage.
However now my entire Peggaotty Planking Plan needed re working. I even gave up a day of my weekend to try to catch up. A new plan has been set in motion and progress with the planks has been made. The deadline that was previously impossible is now unimaginable but I got this. I was confident before but now I’m just hopeful. So cross your fingers for me that with 3 days lost I can still make this happen!
Peggaotty will be clothed by Christmas…even if I work through the drinking games of the Eve Eve party. It will be done!
FOUR AND A HALF DAYS AND 6 PLANKS. LET THE COUNTDOWN COMMENCE!