Oh I am miserable. Miserable! I hate having a cold. I despise this one particularly much.
It's the first cold since moving house, which means: somewhere not as yet set up for having a cold in. Or at least, I haven't worked out how to do it yet. I guess I could huddle up on the sofa and watch something from my housemate's DVD collection (lacking on of my own). I guess there IS lemsip. in fact, there is everything one could need. But I am miserable. Miserable, do you hear!
I have two books to work on every day, and two others that I really want to work on, and all I do is go "bwaaaaah" because I have a cold. A miserable cold, no less.
How is everything supposed to work? Four books! That's madness! Even two. That's madness when seen from inside a miserable cold.
It's such a miserable cold that I just had a cry because I miss my mother, who for some reason I do imagine would read me a book. Because it's the sort of cold that makes you five years old and dreaming a strange and persistent dream of a grown-up life with contracts and deadlines, which cannot be reality because the most impressive thing you can make, and could ever make, is a honking noise with your nose. It's the sort of cold that's like a place you come back to by mistake, like Blackfriars Station after the trains stop running. It is forever in all directions, including sideways.
Oh I am miserable.
I'll call my mother now.