Calling in sick

I just called in sick. It's about time actually, I've been suffering from various severities of cold and cough for 6 weeks now. I don't know what my body is trying to tell me but enough is enough: I'm going to assume it's telling me to stop for a little while so I can fight off this thing with all of the home remedies, possets and potions people keep telling me about.
Ginger and lemon tea.
Hot toddy.
Inhale Vicks vapour rub steam.
Rub oil into your feet.
Garlic.
Thyme.
Chillies.
Eat everything (feed a cold).
Don't eat. Just drink juiced Superfoods.
Rest in bed.
Go for a walk.
Watch Anchorman.
Read Zadie Smith.
Anything else to add, anyone?

The thing is though, that I've tried all these things. I've even tried feeding myself properly and regularly (shocking!) and nothing seems to work. I start to recover from one virus and another one sneaks up on me. When will it end?! I may have to go into quarantine and only drink Barocca if I'm not better...immanently. I can't even remember what it's like to go through a day without blowing my nose.... A night without coughing...
Sigh...
The prevailing feeling is not self-pity though. It's irritation, and I don't mean somewhere in my sinuses. I mean that I always wanted to be more and Elizabeth Bennet than a Jane. Hardy Lizzy who go stomping across fields with mud on the hem of her dress, not sickly Jane who goes out in the rain and spends a week in bed. I don't want to be a delicate, sickly, Romantic heroine.
Did you ever think though, that what Jane probably had when she was suffering enforced bed rest at Bingley's, was a cold. Maybe flu. That's what you catch from being out in the rain (according to tellers of old-wives tales). So, that assumed, I don't know how she ended up (SPOILER ALERT!!) married to Bingley. How was he not repulsed by all the mucus and the red nose? Colds aren't the most attractive look. I certainly wouldn't catch a man like this. I can only surmise that Jane was exaggerating and had she lived today, would have called in sick if she'd sneezed twice.
We all know those people.
Which is another reason I don't enjoy the "I'm not coming in today" phone call. Because I worry they will think I'm that person, when in fact I have a genuinely shitty immune system and no one should be near me.
Saying that, I never assume anyone is lying when they say they are ill, so I don't know why they would think it of me. I suppose it's because my mum always notices when people are ill all the time, and that she rarely is. And if she is, she works anyway more often than not. That's the sign of someone who suffers with headaches. They are martyrs because you can't catch a migraine.
You can catch a cold though, so as I said, I'll stay away from you for a while.
So, to your good health! And mine.

Learning to live with Willie Nelson

This, reader, is Willie Nelson, the newest addition to our household. 

Just as I began to write this blog he sneaked upstairs and did a wee on the rug. I even told him I was writing this so he can't complain that I'm embarrassing him. He certainly had this naming-and-shaming coming.
On the bright side, now that he has relieved himself (in entirely the wrong place as usual) I don't have the fear that I need to keep a beady eye on him wherever he goes for a little while.
I'm on puppy duty today. It's a shame to miss the sunshine but we've opened all the windows, played ball games, tug-of-war games, had a small photoshoot, and even tested out his lead so we could at least pretend we could go for walkies. Unfortunately he doesn't like his lead so that game didn't last long. Not sure what will happen when he's allowed outside (1 week!!), but actually I expect him to be a bit afraid of it. He shook the first time he went into the kitchen, he'll probably have a small panic attack on venturing into far bigger, scarier territory.
I suppose it's fine though. I'm a bit ill still so this forced indoors/tea time is not bad thing.
Small break in writing here when I realise WN has disappeared and I search the house for him, finally finding him napping on my flatmate's jeans.
He shouldn't be napping. He kept everyone awake last night, crying in the kitchen. Remind me to apologise to the neighbours when I see them. So, except for a couple of hours when I wanted him to stop bothering me so I could read the paper, I've been trying to keep him awake. Well, serves him right doesn't it! Also, and more importantly, I'd like him to be tired tonight. So tired he doesn't need someone sat by his bed all night. So tired he doesn't bark. He's a Yorkshire Terrier: a breed not known for soothing vocal qualities.
Despite the weeing and barking, he's alright, is Willie. We're pals. Especially when he does exciting things like sit on command and master the stairs; or sweet things like lick your face if you whine like you are sad.
However, his arrival did signal a sort of life crisis for me. One that was probably not helped by a cough that has stopped me sleeping for any more than a couple of hours since Monday. There's nothing like exhaustion to blow everything out of proportion.
Let me explain puppies to you. PUPPIES ARE BABIES. Babies which are highly mobile, think biting is affectionate, can't wear nappies, and will never grow up. I'm still not entirely convinced I'm ready, even with two responsibility sharing flatmates, to be a parent.
The main reason for this is my life (hence my small personal crisis). It's not enviable. I get by. I don't love my job. I don't travel enough, dance enough, read enough, write enough, see my friends enough. The best thing about it was the fact I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, within reason. I had no ties.
Now I do, and his name is Willie Nelson. He makes me spend my evenings off in the house cleaning the carpet so I don't lose my deposit.
This, I'm sure will get better when he can leave the house and come out with me. Also, when the three of us organise our timetables better. We had to get 4 puppy-sitters this week. This will cost us a fortune in lasagne and pasta bake.
But Willie has also taught me something else: talking about your problems does not fix them. Controversial, I know. People are always telling me to discuss my feeling; tell people when they are being thoughtless or making me angry; be a grown up.
My evidence is this. Before getting Willie Nelson I twice told my flatmates I didn't think I wanted a dog and didn't think it was a good idea. That he was adorable and I already loved him, having seen him just once but I had the fear.
And the result: we got a dog and I have to accept him and learn to be fine with everything, just the same as if I had bottled up my feelings as usual.
Now, I don't want you all to go thinking I'm suffering terribly. It was my fault in the first place for thinking of these problems when we were basically already committed to getting a dog. We'd visited WN and family already. Flatmates just tried to calm me and assure me this was not the end of the world I feared.
And it's quite satisfying that I was right all along about the uselessness of discussion. I take back my Lent resolution to talk about my feelings. What a waste of time.
And to be fair the fact that I have a puppy, is softened by the fact I have a puppy to comfort me. So that's nice. He's trying to read now what I've said about him. We're bonding. He says he likes me best and he can't wait until we can go to the pub together.
Neither can I Willie Nelson, neither can I. Now I'm stuck with you, it's a good job I love you.

And that is what's called: making the best of it.

Driving lessons

Oh dear, it has been a while hasn't it? Two months into the year and only one blog. Terrible.
However, I am sticking with the theme of transportation and moving from bikes to cars. That's right, I'm learning to drive.
The aim is to be roadworthy by the end of the year (preferably September), and that seems like a long time and a small fortune on driving lessons. However I think, considering it's me and I'm hardly the most confident road user, too many lessons are better than not quite enough. My main problems seem to be realising how wide the car and the road are. I'm so used to only navigating my midget frame through the world that I don't trust at all that a car will fit through any gap narrower than the full road. Oncoming buses are not good for my nerves.
Neither are the pedestrians. Especially pram pushing pedestrians who walk out into the road without looking. It's like they have a death wish for their babies.
On the bright side, once I've mastered the art of the near miss, I'll be so London savvy I will be able to drive anywhere.
You'll be pleased to know that it's all going well. Yesterday I zoomed along at a healthy national speed limit pace, I skirted the M25, I took on several roundabouts, including the one that I once navigated my mum around the wrong way (wrong lane not anticlockwise- I'm not that stupid).  I told her to follow a brown car that didn't exist and gave entirely useless information like "that way!"
Maybe I did freak out on one roundabout. It was all wrong. I tried to start in forth gear, forgot how to steer and lost the clutch in one fell swoop. Kevin, my instructor (highly recommended) pretty much had to drive me out of it from the passenger seat.
I don't know what came over me, except that it sounded like a feeble whimper. I can only assume I was briefly possessed.
My driving career did not start in a very promising manner. I had a couple of lessons when I was 17 but all I remember about them was putting the visor down with both hands as I approached a roundabout. That instructor quit soon after, oddly, although I'm sure I wasn't the real cause.
And then there is the volvo-gate for which I would like to issue a public apology. It was during a road trip to Scotland that my friend offered me a tiny driving lesson. Her parents' car, which we had borrowed was automatic so it was a go/stop kind of affair. Being the cautious person I am, I initially refused the lap of the car park, but my excitement won out and five minutes later I had successfully driven in a circle and arrived back in the parking space. Hurrah!
Then I had a second go. And for some reason, as I was pulling into the space a second time, my friend obviously thought I wasn't stopping quickly enough. Probably she was right but I was basically just rolling into the spot. So when she said "and stop...Stop!" I panicked and put my foot on the brake.
Except that it wasn't the brake.
Duel control would have been very useful in this situation, however the car did bump into the wall and the number plate came off. I'm assured this was pretty much the extent of the damage but at the time I was convinced it was awful and I was going to have to buy a new car.
To add insult to injury, the other friend on the road trip was filming the whole thing: Jess's first driving lesson. So somewhere, hopefully never to be seen, is footage of the whole sorry fiasco.
Friend's lovely parents only recently found out what really happened. Friend told them she had done it when a lonely sheep had wandered out into the road. Naturally.
So I'm very sorry about that and I dedicate this blog to you both. I promise next time I crash a car it will not be yours, and I will be fully licensed and insured. I love you. (Too far?)
But now it's going well. Kevin actually says I'm above average, which I suspect may be to bolster my confidence, but I choose to believe him. It certainly helps that I now know which pedal is stop and which is go.