I have quite possibly the World’s Worst Cold.
Literally, it is so bad that on Friday I even had to take a day off work. With a cold. It’s the sort of cold that one normally only gets on holiday, at some point towards the end, after ten whole days and nights of drinking and carousing and no sleep. Only this time, there has been no carousing and certainly no drinking. Even the lychee juice in the fridge is eyeing me threateningly with its questionable morals (fruit juice is the enemy now, did you hear? One glass contains as much sugar as twelve Krispy Kremes. Or something).
Anyway, the deadly cold shows no signs of abating, and all I can do is slather on the Vicks and hope for the best.
Yesterday I decided to brave Topshop Maternity, as I am looking a bit fat now, at least in the afternoons (for some reason, I look thin in the mornings, but by four O clock I look about six months gone) and I don’t want insolent children at work asking me if I’m pregnant. I therefore decided it was time I purchased something slightly looser than the usual obligatory pencil skirt to wear to work, lest I am papped by the Daily Mail and accused of “flaunting my pregnancy curves.” The great thing about Topshop Maternity is that as the average age of the whippersnappers in Toppers is about fifteen, the Maternity section was completely empty. The not-so-good thing is that unlike the rest of Toppers, it does not appear to sell crop tops, jumpers made out of clingfilm or pieces of pink fluff, all of which I had hoped to see reinvented for the maternity market in an ingenious bump-disguising style. In the end, after discovering that it consisted entirely of loose-fitting but boring dresses and pencil skirts with a slightly enlarged bump-accomodating section at the front, I moved on to the “normal” sections, where I purchased a huge candy-pink tent-like creation to wear to work. Nobody will suspect anything when I turn up in that. Except that I might possibly have gone mental.
That is, if I am well enough to return to work tomorrow.