I have been under the weather all week. Nothing I could put my finger on – just low grade ill. Achy limbs, fatigue, swollen lymph nodes. I missed a few parties, cancelled a couple of meetings, took more than a few naps.
Then yesterday, as I was crossing Regent Street after an AW11 Black Fleece press appt, I heard myself saying out loud Christ I feel f**king awful. I guess sometimes you just motor on through, forgetting to take your own health seriously. Certainly in our family nothing is ever that important compared to what lil’sis goes through on a daily basis with MS.
So I cancelled four meetings, hopped it home tout suite, took to my bed, rainchecked my breakfast for this morning and booked in at the surgery instead. By now I was convinced those pesky parasites were back again, but no, apparently I have tonsillitis. For the first time ever. I had no idea it made you sick – I thought you just got a sore throat from it.
But no. Apparently it explains the high temperature & fever & night sweats, headache, lassitude, swollen lymph nodes & general feeling like I’d been hit by a truck all over. Which has been nice.
So: no early breakfast today with lovely journalist at The Wolseley, no Boucheron appointment to look at sparkly bridal jools, no DKNY Easter Egg hunt on Bond St, no product meeting over tea with the charming Lancome PR at Dean Street Townhouse (can you tell it was the last working day before the long public holidays?!) And no replying to the ten zillion emails screaming at me from my inbox.
Instead, now that I am officially ill, I have allowed myself to admit to being sick. I have been asleep most of the day, in between reading Georgette Heyer novels, gargling with aspirin and a brief hop to the Post Office to mail my godchildren’s Easter treats – imperative, as otherwise I would have eaten the lot.
I’m sorry for the lacklustre posting so far this week. I really have been feeling rotten.
Now where are those emergency chocolate eggs I hid earlier?