Thursday, 8 March 2012

I reckon being ill as one of the great pleasures of life...

...provided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work till one is better. (Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh, 1903)

Let me find a picture of Samuel Butler so I can print it out, stick it on the back of my study door and throw darts at it.

I HATE being ill. Absolutely HATE it. I'm not very good at it. The thing is, I'm very strong-willed about it and think that if I pretend I'm not ill and carry on as normal, then I'll conquer it. (I don't want to make myself out as some sort of heroine. I'm not. I'm just explaining how I behave when I'm ill.)

I have flu. Not a nasty cold that I've labelled as flu because it sounds better than saying I have a nasty cold. I have flu. Compounded by the fact that sneezing and coughing is excruciatingly painful with a cracked rib.

I'm just back from seeing to the horses. (The fresh air DID make me feel marginally better) When I left, Peter said 'If you're as ill as you say you are then you wouldn't be able to go to the yard.'

WRONG. I just did.

Samuel Butler says it's a pleasure being ill provided one "is not obliged to work till one is better." I have to say that if I had what Peter calls 'a proper job' I wouldn't be going in to work.

Working for myself, working from home, being freelance, depending on commissions, working to tight print I 'obliged' to work?

Yesterday, I thought so. A very tight deadline for a holiday brochure about Florida.

It took me 7½ hours. I don't know how I did it. I don't know if it's a pile of rubbish. (I must check in the clear light of day)  I DO know that I have developed an abiding hate for Florida. (Sorry Florida)

I'm sure, however, that my brochure will encourage zillions of unsuspecting Brits to take a holiday there.

I'm good at pretending.