I managed two hours at work this morning, most of which was spent under either my desk, or my workmate's, or the spare desk that will be filled on Tuesday, not giving out random sexual favours as would no doubt be the case if this blog was an episode of Green Wing, but trying to make the telephone go for the new guy. I think under our desks in my corner is where all the telephones in the building are hooked up. But we managed to only crash one computer in the process - and hey presto, new guy has a phone so he too can be harassed by freelancers needing work and angry authors who have just found an error that needs to be corrected except their book is currently printing.
I have the flu. But I woke up at some ridiculous hour as Skye seemed to be making a great deal of noise, and decided, what the hell, let's go infect some people with my nastiness. Skye, it transpires, was up most of the night vomitting. As I didn't cook last night, this is not my fault. Anyway, after two hours at work, I think all my workmates wanted me to leave, such was the blowing of nose and sounding not so hot. Problem is, I don't really feel sick enough to be at home - however, judging by yesterday's performance at work, where it took me ages to write an email because it felt like I'd been at the cooking sherry all morning, I should not be trying to communicate with suppliers right now. So home, pondering what to read, should I start my proofreading, and just how many litres of orange juice can I possible have? And trying to avoid Skye in case we cross contaminate each other.
There is chocolate and I don't want it. This must be serious.