I've been laid low with another cold. I attribute this to flying. I always get off planes feeling like shite. As has been well-documented by professional moaners in the columns of weekend broadsheets, the air one breathes on an aircraft is terrible: stale, full of harmful microbes and far too warm. A bit like Naples in fact.
So the upshot is I retired to the nuptial bed last night, dog-tired as per, but was unable to sleep as breathing through my mouth was like trying to suck a nettle up a bendy straw. I was catatonic this morning of course. I did think about phoning in sick, but I have a few meagre duties to perform on Wednesday mornings that are mission-critical and that I can't really trust anyone else to do. It would be a massive dereliction of professional duty on my part, therefore, not to have pitched-up and done the needful. A bit like the first officer of a 747 suggesting one of the stewardesses land in Bangkok because he's got a verruca.
I've also just discovered that my presence will be required tomorrow too. Both my departmental colleagues are at a meeting in Ireland.
Begorrah.
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