Monday, June 01, 2009


I’ve been sick in bed since Friday afternoon with a mild fever and a serious case of self-pity. Other symptoms included a throbbing head-ache, undefined pains all over and disturbingly high (for me!) rage levels. Outside my tiny window the blazing sunshine mocked me as I shivered under my duvet. Finally I had finished my play, handed in my dissertation, been given my grades for the year and I had to start my holiday in bed. I often get sick after long periods of sustained effort, especially when I don’t let my work-load stop me partying. (A maths friend: ‘Eight hours a day, six days a week, for a month? You call that a long period of sustained effort?’ ‘Well, I am taking literature. Things are different for us.’) But personally I blame my sickness on the events of Friday morning, which was when that pain in my stomach set in. (I have such funny, funny buddies in Tours. This one: ‘Sure, Frances always ends up sick in bed when she has to get up before 9am.’ Ok, I know my weaknesses. I’m not cut out for the working world. Point duly noted.)