Birthday Blues

 

Birthday Blues

 

 

 

Hi.

Sorry I’ve took a few months off, I have this thing called a life. So how are you? Good. Good. Hmm. Right.

So yeah, it was my birthday at the beginning of this month. A few days before we went down to Whitby (me and my family) and came back the night before my 20^th – stopping off at an aunty’s birthday dinner at a posh restaurant.

Whether it was the four hour drive, or the beef (it was so pink I asked for a defibrillator) I don’t know, but I … er, saw it again in the carpark on the way out. Proper projectile stuff. In true me fashion I just sat in my vest on the drive home, saying ‘the sticky toffee pudding was rock hard … no, Mum obviously I never ate it, they’re meant to be soft.’

Then I was sick again once home. Proper everything. Just everything. Exorcist looked like CBeebies. I craved water but couldn't drink it. It was a hang over without the alcohol. Four times from four in the evening ‘til eight on the morning of my birthday.

I opened a card my mum and dad had done from my teddy bear and his sister and cried like a woman who’s found out she was pregnant (I hadn’t slept all night and had just thrown up boiled water.) I went to bed then (at 9AM) got up at 4PM, watched Shrek, cried at that, and went to bed.

I couldn’t even eat the Dracula cake that the chefs at Whitby had procured:

 

I’m pretty sure that it was Chris Eccleston’s doctor with jam round his mouth and a bit of cloth tied round his neck. But on short notice, bravo I say.

Anyway we’ll end on a poem. I would end on a rock song like Freaky Friday (I adored the sequel and the 2003 one is in my top 3 of movies ever) but I don’t look or sound like Lindsay Lohan – and nowhere near as cool as Jamie Lee Curtis.

Mister Common Cold

 

 

 

Mr Common Cold arrived without warning, on a cold and blustery Saturday morning.

He was as tall as the door, and dressed in white, his yellow eyes gleaming like lanterns on a cold night.

He waited patiently, I didn’t hear a peep, until I was well into the land of sleep.

Whilst I was sleeping, he made my throat scratch, by climbing down my throat like a serving hatch.

Mr Common Cold was here to stay: ‘Oh – rejoice!’ he says, ‘what a happy day!’

He sits comfortably, Mr Common Cold, sitting cross-legged like scholars of old.

I picture him, blue-skin, big grin, getting ready to make a horrible din.

He blocks up my nose with the smoke from his pipe, making me grovel, making me gripe.

I solider on, drinking hot tea – yet I feel so miserable, as miserable as can be.

Mr Common Cold was settling in – ‘oh –’ he said, ‘what a wonderful din!’

Mr Common Cold sat on his chair, laughing at me wailing in despair.

As soon as I drink, my nose starts running like a melted ice rink.

I wonder around with a dopey face, the exact opposite of style and grace.

I go outside in the wonderful sunlight: ‘oh –’ I said, ‘I’ll sleep well tonight!’

Mr Common Cold is beginning to grow tired of his stay, he’s done everything and it’s just the third day.

Overnight, Mr Common Cold has been visited by hot water and lemon – Mr Common Cold feels like a right melon.

I fart when I have the Cold of Doom – they’re smelly and deadly and clear the room.

For lunch, I have hot soup, and my body slowly starts to regroup.

At seven o’clock I get ready for the night, feeling I have flown a long-haul flight.

Mr Common Cold feels that this is no good, so he puts on his white coat and puts up the hood.

Mr Common Cold packs his case – there’s no way in hell he’s winning this race.

I talk to friends about the cold – and then I sneeze – the snot is gold.

I cough, and I look at my face – like the bottom of a trough.

Mr Common Cold has found a new target, someone a bit more up market.

I’m free of my cold – hip-hip hooray – carpe diem – seize the day.

Mr Common Cold thinks this is treason – he’ll be back, he’s coming next season.

 

 

Bye!