Continuing unspeakable. I always think I am rather stoical and brave when I get a bug, and then I get one and am absolutely pathetic. I fantastically believe that I may wish it away through sheer force of will. This is magical thinking of the nuttiest kind and makes me ashamed, since I am supposed to be an empiricist.
So I lie in bed, groaning, and thinking in panic of all the work I have to do and all the logistics that must be done and the emails sent and the arrangements made and oh oh oh.
I have tried chicken soup, industrial amounts of vitamin C, Solpadeine, echinacea, ginger tea and all sorts. I know I am properly ill because I have not had a bet for two days. If I cannot study the form, then there must be something direly wrong.
It is so ordinary, and so dull, and so inevitable. Everyone gets a bug, from time to time. It’s all round the village. But I appear to regard the whole thing as a personal affront and a tremendous indignity.
Tomorrow, I shall be bringing in the iron tonic and GETTING UP. Because this is ridiculous.
In my delirium, I saw that there is a best-looking horse competition somewhere on Facebook; some Thoroughbred lovers’ site that I follow, happily. Light-headed from illness and too much sleep (my other sovereign cure for all ailments) I started madly rifling through my old pictures to find the most lovely shots of Red the Mare. Because surely she must win most beautiful horse?:
And then I wondered if there were a most beautiful dog competition, because really, who could not give this face a championship rosette?:
I very sincerely trust that everything will be back to normal tomorrow. Because otherwise I don’t know what will happen.