I managed to catch a bug on the plane home from our trip to Canberra and Queensland. The flight home was cramped and stuffy - not good. So this week has been brought to you by panadiene (the coedine stops the sniffles), hot showers and general patheticness.
It wasn't all bad. I did go and see the final installment of the Twilight saga (saga is the most apt description) with my book club gal pals. (I really don't see the attraction, but half of them are crazy for Twilight!) And we went and saw Skyfall last night in the Gold Class (thank you, generous client). It was pretty good. Not great, but that may have been my general malaise, plus the wait staff walking in front during moments of high drama.
However this morning I'm up, have walked the dogs, unpacked suit cases (stuff is all over the bed, but we're making progress), put on washing and am about to put up my Christmas tree.
Yay! I'm getting better. However I feel guilty celebrating recovery. I read a blog of a woman who lives with what is probably an incurable syndrome, which, along with other nasty things, is slowly robbing her of her quality of life. I admire her fortitude, which she willingly admits deserts her from time to time, so my glee in getting better feels quite churlish. But it's so nice to see the end of feeling blah. However my hubby has just rung to say he's probably coming down with the bug. Oh well.
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