Thank you, Lord

In May of last year I come down with the worst cold I've ever had. I struggle through a week of it at work, and by the weekend my head throbs, my joints ache, my nose looks like a solvent abuser's (nose) and my chest hurts when I cough. I'm having a real good time. Get good and drunk at the weekend to see if that helps, and it does, but only temporarily.

By Monday I've had enough: I call in sick. (Incidentally, I've always wanted to call in well. "Hi, this is David. I feel great, so I'm not coming in.") I spend the day in bed, and on Tuesday, though I'm still coughing and running a temperature and generally feeling like shit, I'm more or less okay to do some spreadsheet-bashing, although at home rather than at the office. I have to dial in to an important conference call at three in the afternoon, but I think it'll be manageable.

By two-forty-five I've taken a turn for the worse. My eyes are streaming. My chest hurts. I've had to open the window because it's humid and I'm pouring with sweat. My voice sounds like a cinder under a door. My head feels like it's full of cotton wool.

It's humid because there's a thunderstorm on the way. The conference call starts. I'm under pressure. I sweat more. The storm hits. The mute button on the phone won't work, and my colleagues are complaining about the noise of the thunder, so I have to close the window. I sweat more.

The dog's frightened by the thunder, runs into the room and starts to howl. I hurl it out onto the landing and close the door. The temperature rises. I croak down the telephone as the thunder crashes. The dog, still howling, is now scratching and chewing at the door. My colleagues are by this time hysterical with mirth. Bastards. At no time does it occur to me to drop off the call.

And some days aren't that good