Its A Conspiracy...

I’m sure (well, I hope) everybody has been wondering about my mysterious disappearance the last week. The whole of last week has been misery filled because of a conspiracy led by the dark and deep unknown forces against me. I have been miserably ill. I conveniently fall ill the last day of school and not only that, my Internet also conveniently decides to break down on the same day. Conspiracy much? As a result I’m stuck at home all day, all alone with nothing to do and am left with two terrible options – Italian television or exam revision. Between the two of them I don’t know which is worse, alright its definitely Italian television. Yes people, that has been whole of my last week. But I was strong, I didn't let fate get better off me. No, I couldn't do that. If fate wanted me to study, I couldn't let it win, could I? I spent the better part of most of last week re-reading Mrs Dalloway, which was much better than I remembered it to be.

Coming back to my prolonged illness. The cause behind this long illness is solely TPF. That little piece of bird poo is so definitely going to pay for this. She coerced me, against be better opinion to go for a walk, on a cold, cold day, in the rain, without an umbrella and eat a big ice cream. And if this wasn't enough, the same evening she made me wait for her at a bus stop, where it was really breezy for 25 whole minutes. I can’t believe she doesn’t feel guilty about this. The least she can do after all this is be sympathetic, but no, she continues to be her terrible little self and laugh at my illness. My throat still feels as if someone is raking it from inside, and if I blow my nose once more, I’m going break a few capillaries. Fine, bad visual images apart, I feel terrible and the whole world is against me.

Everytime I fall ill, I always end up following a predictable 'sit-com' routine as I like to call it. I end up staying in my night-dress all day long watching my old Disney DVDs wearing a big, old, smelly sweater that has a big tear in umm... a rather compromising place at the front. Its so old that the weaving is almost coming out from the sides and it has become completely see-through. My mum wanted to throw it away two years ago, but I absolutely adore it. Its my 'illness sweater'. I also end up having tissues lying in every room of the house in the weirdest of places that I don't remember putting, until my mother gives me an ultimatum to clean them up. My hair is always terribily dirty throughout my 'sick period', and I refuse to wash it or let it down to see how dirty its become. I feel completely and utterly decadent, fat, ugly and strangly happy.

Therefore, this week I've ended up having a red swollen nose, dirty hair, torn clothes, tissues spread around the house and everything else that a decently ill sit-com star needs. Now all I need here is any random, attractive, young man knocking on my door, telling me he loves me regardless of my physical condition and agreeing to marry me, so that we can live happily ever after for the rest of our lives. But no, nothing of that sort has happened yet and I suspect all I've ended up doing is getting on my mother's nerves because of my incessant whinging.

PS: Sympathy comments are definitely welcome, anything else is going to be moderated. I'm sulky when I'm ill, as Mr Poop can probably tell :)