As readers of this blog will have noticed, the lovely Louise took me away to Paris a couple of weeks ago, and we had lots of fun there, but… and this is where it gets surreal, it seems like a) I wasn’t destined to go, and b) I’m being punished for it…
You see, the week before we left, I fell and hurt my ankle. The newly weakened ankle meant I fell a couple more times that day and it was only because of Louise that I even made it home. Well, Louise and the lovely staff at Brewdog Camden anyway. We staggered in there and they gave me an ice pack for it while Louise found me a stick to lean on. It made for an uncomfortable week, and one in which I wasn’t sure I’d even get to Paris, though in the end we got there just fine.
When we got back, the walking hadn’t done me any good whatever, but after some days of keeping the weight off them, I was beginning to recover (as indeed was
Mjoll Louise, who’d carried a good bit of kit all weekend and had worn herself out doing so). We got to the next weekend where we had a meal out with a friend, which was fun, but by the next day I was starting to get sick. Was it food poisoning? A cold? At this stage the only thing I could rule out was a hangover.
Well, it turned out to be some kind of cold/bug and it lasted over a week, having stolen my voice for a couple of days. I had a headache that wouldn’t shift for 6 days! I’m only finally starting to feel marginally humanoid today. I still don’t have any appetite though and I’m still unsteady and feeling weak.
Like I said… the universe must hate me. Either that, or I’m getting old.