Hello lovely readers. If you could please imagine that said in a snotty croak, you’d have a better idea of my physical state right now. Really, I am a fool. In the same way that humans tend to mentally gloss over how painful things are if they result in a good outcome (childbirth/marathons/Ikea), I always forget that every season I come down with a hardcore cold after London Fashion Week.
All those nights with 3 or 4 hours sleep because I am writing copy when I get back home after the shows, combined with the non-stop days where we eat on the hoof, or not at all, properly bugger up your immune system. I spent Thursday & Friday feeling ropey, but yesterday it really kicked in and by early evening I was back in bed with a box of vastly over-priced ultrabalm tissues and a grumpy face.
That’s because instead of languishing in my bedroom in the manner of a consumptive Victorian, I was supposed to having a social life, something that has been lacking in my calendar this year, due to the house move, Paris, New York & then LFW. I am pining for my friends.
Anyway, the current bout of plague meant no supper in Ladbroke Grove at E&P’s, and no going out dancing afterwards. It didn’t help my vile mood that Clare sent me an SMS at 11 from the club a mere two streets away where we were supposed to be at Guilty Pleasures‘ Bad Taste night, drinking fluoro cocktails, dancing on the stage and generally hamming it up. (Past reports of GP nights here & here.)
So: instead of all my plans for today (dogwalking, house organising, etc etc), I am stuck in bed moaning.