I've been crook this week. No, it's not the virus. At least I don't think it is. I haven't been tested. I've been crook like this before, a cold, that goes to my chest, getting all green and mucusy along the way. It's just a cold, promise.
But then again apparently women are among those more likely to be sceptical about the vaccine, and apparently research suggests middle-aged women also have a higher risk of experiencing a range of debilitating ongoing symptoms, such as fatigue, breathlessness, muscle pain, anxiety, depression, and "brain fog" after hospital treatment for Covid.
We can't win, can we?
Mind you, they seem to be similar symptoms we experience during menopause, if my reading about this next stage of life is on point.
I'm going to make no excuses for the rambling nature of this column any more. My brain fog is thicker than the mist that settles over Canberra most winter mornings.
But what can you do?
You can get to the point.
It sucks being sick at the best of times. It sucks even more when you've got no one to pass you the tissues or make you a cup of tea.
IN OTHER NEWS:
At least I have no companion in bed to complain that I'm disrupting his sleep while I'm coughing up a lung. So sorry I'm disturbing you, is it okay if I try to draw a breath now?
It's been a long time since I sent out invites to a pity party but this week I'm having one.
It's been almost six years. Lordy. And for 98 per cent of the time I am grateful for this new life. I can cough to my heart's (lung's?) desire and there's no one to worry about but me.
But there are other situations where the novelty has just about worn off. Here's a few.
Dish it up
Can someone just empty the dishwasher please? It's one of those things that I know if I don't do it, it won't get done, like cleaning the shower, or taking the rubbish out, but the dishwasher gets me most mornings.
I should stop cooking such fabulous meals - for one - and use less pots and pans, and just live with the one plate and wine glass, could I manage with just a fork? But one morning I'd just like to get up and have it empty, that emptiness representing that someone else is ready for a brand new day. And maybe thank you for cooking that elaborate feast last night.
Mind you, I should be grateful that I never have to restack it.
Speaking of elaborate feasts. I get a bit sick of eating them four nights in a row. Serves four, sitting for one. Some nights I wonder why I bother. Just cook a chicken breast and grab a handful of salad from a bag, perhaps one of those cups of microwave rice. And oh, imagine someone else cooking me dinner. Or even just opening a can of pumpkin soup and toasting some crusty bread and saying here's lunch, sit down.
Mind you, I can cook with as much garlic as I want and tuna's on the menu a couple of times a week.
I want to book, I need to book, a holiday, a long holiday, or perhaps a series of shorter, terribly luxurious holidays. How fabulous, you must be thinking, you can go anywhere you want, no need to worry about where other people want to go, you don't have to book a three-bedroom apartment, you can do what you want. Yes, all that, but the idea of, say, finishing a full day's hike in some exotic location and then not having anyone to discuss it with, what's the point?
Mind you, I can just go, can't I? And I can take the aisle seat.
Well at least one symptom I don't have to worry about is loss of libido. Trying to remember, however, the last time that happened. The lower back has been aching this week, thanks cold, how nice it would have been to have someone to give it a rub with a strong hand. Or at least be happy enough to spoon and keep said back warm.
Mind you, my vibrator doesn't complain that I'm coughing.