After a Twixmas spent wishing for duvet days, and only really enjoying one proper one by the end of the holidays, I had my wishes belatedly granted yesterday morning. I spent a good few hours in bed, reading: because I had a cold.
The day before I’d been at a client meeting—one of those clients that’s been demanding face-to-face meetings on the grounds that they “generate energy” when in fact they merely tidy up after the rest of the process—and it had been quite clear from the start that I wasn’t particularly well. I alternated between keeping my head down and looking dazed, and arguing rather too strongly against the entire project’s tendency to get bogged down in details. I left the meeting wild-eyed with an acquaintance who I think clearly knew I was in a downward spiral.
It seems that, at the moment, every other time I use public transport, I pick up germs. Wednesday was a rare evening trip into Oxford, and my last cold, only a couple of weeks before Christmas, was a suspicious, incubation-y length of time since I’d last taken a bus. This, it seems, is the hidden advantage/disadvantage of the freelancer: that you don’t have office mates to make you sick; but that, if you leave the house at all in the wrong season, you’ll come down with absolutely any germ that’s in common currency, because you’ve not had anything for ages.
By lunchtime, the worst twenty-four hours had passed, and the storms had also abated, leaving a brittle, clear afternoon of sunshine in which to air my brittle, clearing head. I managed to potter in the garden, and even make it round the front of the house with the green-waste bin. But I was damned if I was going as far as the bus stop. The last thing I wanted in my weakened state was another cold.