Woe is me

I can't help thinking that there must be another posting on this blog with the same title. It is my wont from time to time, as My Loved One frequently points out, to feel self-pity. I mean really feel it. I have a look - usually staring out of the window, a little sigh, and a pathetically small voice that goes with everything. A cup of tea?, I am asked. Deep breath, sigh, "yes please". Cue looking out of the window some more. Today is such a day, because I am unwell. I am illin', as my My Most Delicious Friend Regina Silverspoon® would say. I deplore being ill. Being ill is fine when you get time off school - although I didn't want to in case I missed something (in the playground that is) - and it's fine when you don't have that much to do at work and a couple of days off to watch Murder She Wrote followed by Diagnosis Murder followed by Midsomer Murders followed by a marathon of the King of Queens (Kevin James is someone I am contemplating adding to People I Find Strangely Attractive) is exactly what the doctor ordered. Lying about in bed is: for sex; it's for watching movies on a Sunday afternoon; it's for reading a good book; and of course for beauty-sleeping. It's not for groaning, sniffling and coughing and crying "why is this happening to me?". I want to go out tonight and I shall, if it kills me. This bloody cold.