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.