Friday night - I sit down for dinner with some old friends. Nothing fancy, just a Pizza Express on Victoria Street. As I pick up the wine list a small tickle dances at the base of my throat and for a split-second my face flushes. Bollocks.
Yesterday - pick dad up at the airport with my throat feeling like wet gravel. I sound slightly rough but am sort of all together. Once we get home I have a lemsip and take a nap. I'm supposed to go to a BBQ down Camberley way and hope that lemsip + nap = cured. Lemsip + nap = better rested and no worse, and that was good enough for me, so I hopped in the volvo and shot down to Camberley listening to The Editors at high volume with the window down and sunroof open. About as close as I'm ever going to get to being a boy racer. The BBQ is lovely - nice weather, a bouncy castle, giant connect 4 and sumo suits. There's also loads of booze that I'm not touching for sake of both throat and driving. I catch up with old mates who look bewildered that I'm not drinking. Their shock at me driving as well brings a smile to my face. The wet gravel is drying out and quite sharp now, so I make my excuses (and sadly miss the fireworks) and drive home to console a recently jobless friend. The recently jobless friend is surprisingly chipper due to the 8 pints of the day and is excited about the blank canvas of the future. I drink pints of oj and lemonade. Closing time hits and I walk home feeling as though my head is slightly seperated from the rest of my body.
Today - dad picks mom up from the airport. My first words this morning sound like they come from a consumptive seal, eviscerating my throat to the point of tears. I keep the curtains shut because it's a beautiful day and I'm supposed to be going to Clapham for a nice Sunday lunch and if I open the curtains I'll try to go out and feel the worse for it. I'm drinking Lady Grey with honey and lemon, a concoction so bitter I feel it must at least build character if not cure me. And I'm all out of lemsip.