(Well, until my death, obv!)
LIVE BLOG NOW OVER! READ THROUGH FOR THE FULL REVELATION! IS ANNA DEAD? WHO KNOWS?
(Though admittedly the posts above may, in time, be a bit of a givaway)
Since Im not ill that often, I thought I should probably keep a good clear record of it. Especially as, according to my interweb self-diagnosis, I only have a matter of hours to live.
So its probably worth recording, so that not only can we document my descent into, you know, utter infirmity and that (before a possible miraculous recovery, a la every episode of House ever), but also, if I do die, then we have a pre-written last chapter for the Oh, GOD, she was a mildly popular blogger and then she DIED and we were ALL really SAD retrospective book.
So. Ahem. My descent to my present deathbedness (retrospective) and continued updates as I slowly crawl toward death/miraculous-recovery (at the hands of the haggard but undeniably fuckable Hugh Laurie).
10am, Thursday: Anna makes her weary way into London. She is annoyed at her somewhat out-of-proportion hangover from Wednesday night, and puts it down to forgetting to eat anything. Boy, she feels poo.
2pm, Thursday: Anna tries to remember the last time being hungover involved not being able to swallow.
4pm, Thursday: Eventually, having reached the same temperature as the inside of a spicy-chilli-topped baked potato, Anna suddenly leaves the office for fear of destroying the carefully air-conditioned atmosphere enjoyed by her colleagues.
(That was sarcasm. We work in a slow-cooker. That wasnt causing the sweating though. Well, not the extra sweating. That was the fever)
5.30, Thursday: Anna arrives home and goes to sleep.
8.00, Thursday: Anna wakes up and moves to a position under a blanket on the sofa, shivering and sweating and watching a recorded episode of Heroes. The possibility of her being a superhero with a special skill of bursting into flames while sweating is touted.
9pm, Thursday: House is on. Various diagnoses are immediately seized upon and Annas symptoms seem to fit them all. She has Lupus! No, it is not Lupus. It is NEVER Lupus! Has she not learnt this by now?
What about a tumour? Or perhaps a collection of non-malignant tumours around the inside throat area, caused by crack-pipe-usage. Except without the crack. And the pipe. And more exposure to contagious colleagues over the last few weeks. But otherwise very similar.
10pm-10.26pm, Thursday: After an extended period of lying on the sofa shivering and saying Meh. OW. ow. ooooowwww. sniff. OW. every time she attempts to swallow (not anything in particular, you filthy motherdusters. Just, you know, swallow) Anna is sent to bed for being annoying.
3am: Anna wakes up. The seagulls are all shouting outside. Although her fever has gone down, she cannot sleep. Looking at the packet of empty packet of Suparacetamol! or whatever it is called, and realising it has around three espressos worth of caffeine per capsule, she gives up and lies in the dark feeling sorry for herself instead. Swallowing hurts. Head hurts. Tummy hurts. Ears hurt. There is no more paracetamol. This represents and ALL TIME LOW (of the rememberable past)(bearing in mind how bad her memory is, this is not necessarily very long).
9am Due to the continuance of the death-disease, Anna fails to go to work.
11am: First round of self-diagnosis on the internet, after discovery of strangely coloured lumps covering surrounding area of throat cavity.
It is discovered through the use of medical googling tests that Anna has a rare disease normally affecting only children under five years old in North America. Weirdly, though this is contracted by coming into hand-contact with infected stools in the last 6 days, and Anna cant remember touching poo for a MUCH longer time than that, it is the obvious diagnosis. She begins to look worriedly for unsightly blisters on her feet.
11.04: There arent any. Relieved, Anna goes back to sleep.
3pm: On waking, it is discovered that the miscoloured lumps have turned into hurty blisters. This leads to further google-diagnoses, and the patient is presented with a shortlist of Tonsillitis, Common Cold, AIDS, Flu, or the Plague.
4.30: Anna is very vomitous. This would suggest a possible confirmation of tonsillitis diagnosis, but is also strongly indicative of paracetamol overdose, which frankly isnt out of the question.
5.30: After welcoming weekend houseguest, graciously describing to weekend houseguest where she can find her own cup of tea in the kitchen, and duly dispatching weekend houseguest out for a healthy walk, alone. Anna, much weakened by the role of gracious host goes back to bed, moaning quietly.
7.30: Houseguest arrives back. Anna moans slightly louder, until Lemsip appears.
8.30: Beloved takes houseguest to pub. Fever starts coming back. Anna feels quietly sorry for herself.
10.30: Houseguest and beloved return. Houseguest and Beloved nod sympathetically while regaled with tales of the dreadful fever and subsequent fitful sleep they missed while at pub.
12am, midnight: With everyone gone to bed, Anna, restless from too little activity, too much sleep, and too hurty a swallowing mechanism lies on the sofa in front of a shopping channel feeling miserable. There is no doctor appointment till at least Monday. And even then, it wont be Doctor Hugh Laurie-House. Apparently, he is not really a doctor.
12.30: Being sensible, Anna goes to bed.
1.10am: Realising the pain is too much and the struggle to not wakeup her beloved too great, Anna takes herself, her bastard throat, and some kind of cuddly blanket off to the sofa.
4.50am Anna gives up trying to sleep on the sofa, though not after discovering where theyve hidden Larry Sanders in the schedules after all this time. ITV4, sometime between 2 and 3, apparently. Throat hurts too much too sleep. Still, dragging her sorry self up the stairs, she settles down and is pleased to doze off into a successful sleep.
5.23am: For a grand total of less than 26 minutes.
9.34am: After a good number of hours managing to sleep peacefully next to the grumpiest flip-flopper in Brighton, Annas beloved leaves her finally snoring unhappily, and goes off to Mr Boots the chemist, where he buys some decaffeinated paracetamol. And some cherry flavoured chloroform that you spray directly into your throat.
11.51: In a fit of Stubbornness, Anna joins her beloved and the lovely houseguest in going down to watch the Pride parade go past the bottom of the road. Sadly, all the lycra, sequins and showtunes (Musicals being the theme of this years festival) cannot cure the lurgy, and
1.23pm: after less than an hour of bare chests and disco hits she is forced to crawl back up the hill to bed. Sniff. Death now surely cannot be far from her now.
(Although I am a bit hungry. For the first time in two days.)
(Which might account for the weakness, Im thinking)
Still. Woe is me, etc. Think of me kindly, when Im gone.
And make sure I get a good publisher for the post-mortem anthology, yeah?
6pm: After an afternoon of classic British romantic films of the 1940s, Anna decides she is bored of being almost dead and makes like a healthy person. This involves Pimms.
11am, Sunday: After a full nights sleep – brought on by a heady mix of alcohol, lack of sleep the night before, and that nice cherry-flavoured chloroform spray stuff my beloved brought me – I awoke, and found myself to be miraculously, and phenomenally, NOT DEAD.
SUNDAY NIGHT ROUND UP
And I continued not being dead ALL DAY!
Yes. In a shock event bound to be baffling the medical establishment for years to come, the blisters that yesterday coated my throat like angry broken seashells – if thats a thing – had abated, deflated and were now pretending to be little more than grumpy gravel.
Thats right, I either have the constitution of an ox, or Jesus. Because like an ox, I take lots of vitamins that help fight off diseases, and like Jesus, I was struck down with a sore throat and on the third day got better.
Thanks for being here for me in the dark times, people.
Publishers, call off your dogs of post-mortem memoir acquisition war.
I am now officially Not Dead.