Lord Miros and other animals

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Sicko

With impeccable timing, karma has reared up and tugged on my scrotum once again. As you all know, it's Cheltenham week; the biggest and best racing festival of the year, with literally dozens of mouthwatering ultra-competitive races for me to smash into. So on Monday I wake up in a cold sweat and find I can hardly move. Really. I spent less than one hour out of bed on Monday, either shivering uncontrollably or sweating buckets. On Tuesday I developed the most unpleasant, lung-busting cough I've ever had, and on Wednesday this developed into a more niggly, tickly perma-cough, with added sore throat. Sleep has been virtually impossible.

Joyfully, I'm over it. Today I woke up after 9 blissful hours of kip feeling reborn. I'm such a pussy; I really can't cope with being ill. My mind starts to occupy itself with the most horrific thoughts - torture, death, visions of hell, all sorts of nastiness. I can't control it. It probably didn't help that I was reading Brighton Rock at the time; that is one nasty book. If only I'd known, I'd have carried on with my other book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. That's much nicer. Except for that little prick Edmund, what a git he is.

So anyway, life now has a new glow about it. I've been feeling so sorry for myself the past few days I convinced myself I was never going to get better. Now I feel ready to conquer the world! Or at least the place market in the Jewson Novices Handicap Chase. Which I suppose is a start.

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