Day 36 & 37: Signed Off, Soulless, and Still Sick as....

Well, fellow jabbers, here we are. Days 36 and 37.

The virus (or plague, or curse, or whatever unholy thing this is) is still clinging to me like an unwanted ex who just won’t take the hint.

Thank God my GP has officially signed me off work - which sounds glamorous until you realise it just means I’m now bedridden with paperwork. Fabulous.

Let’s talk about how I feel: rubbish.

Utter, soul-sucking rubbish.

Still exhausted.

Still unable to eat.

Still very much resembling an extra from The Walking Dead, but without the perk of a Hollywood paycheck.

Food update? There isn’t one. My appetite is missing in action, presumed dead. If I had to file a missing person’s report, it would read: “Last seen last week flirting with a bowl of soup. No further sightings.”

The thought of eating is about as appealing as licking a radiator. Even Mustard (my beloved cat-shaped hot water bottle) is starting to look more nourishing than actual food.

Energy levels? Non-existent.

Imagine trying to walk through wet cement while carrying two cats and a hangover - that’s how just getting to the loo feels.

If Olympic medals were handed out for sheer stamina in lying down, I’d be a gold medalist by now.

To add insult to injury, my body has decided to embrace brain fog deluxe edition. I’ve spent 15 minutes today trying to remember the word for “kettle.”

Spoiler: I called it the “water cooker” and stared at it suspiciously like it might explode.

Reading emails? Impossible.

I glanced at one and immediately needed a nap.

As for the cats - the MeowChat™ surveillance squad is still fully operational. I caught them huddled on the windowsill earlier, whispering like two furry mob bosses planning their next move.

My boyfriend insists they’re “just watching birds.”

Please.

I wasn’t born yesterday.

I know a hostile takeover when I see one.

Signed off work, unable to eat, still half-delirious…

Honestly, this “virus” isn’t a health issue anymore, it’s a lifestyle.

I’ve gone full Victorian invalid.

Next step: fainting dramatically onto a chaise lounge while someone feeds me weak tea and sighs about my delicate constitution.

But alas, here I am. Wrapped in blankets, clinging to Mustard, still waiting for the day my body remembers how to human again.

Let's hope I will get better when I get to the Isle of Wight...

Updates from the front lines:

Rubbish levels: Olympic standard.

Food intake: approximately half a thought about toast.

Work status: officially a professional sick person.

Virus: still squatting rent-free in my body.

With Love,

JABatha Christie