I was still crook as Rookwood yesterday, but that’s not the only reason I didn’t blog.
You see, it was DD’s birthday and I had a festival planned that kicked off with a fancy night in the city on Monday.
Given my puke-a-thon over the weekend, DD was very skeptical about my prospects and suggested on Sunday night that we reschedule.
No, no, I insisted, predicting I’d be be “80%”
Guess what? I was not 80%.
Not even close.
So much for Dr Google saying I’d be right as rain in 24-72 hours. Day six has dawned with my stomach still churning.
Anyway, back to “celebration” day … I struggled through work before pulling the plug at 3pm and wanly catching the train to the hotel for an expensive lie-down.
DD promised to follow in a few hours via the chemist with various chemical fixes including anti-nausea medication.
As I lay in the very fancy hotel bed I decided to take a selfie for Instagram, as you do when you’re a social media junkie. It was supposed to be captioned: “If you’re going to be sick in bed you might as well do it in style at The Westin.”
But my mobile phone is on the fritz and decided to post the pic sans caption then freeze the touch screen so I couldn’t amend it.
Eeeek! It looked like I was posting a snap of some tacky mid-afternoon hotel romp (with bonus crazy eyes). Fret, fret, panic, panic. And so valuable napping time was spent frantically trying to restore my … Er … Dignity? Well restore something.
By the time I finally managed to postscript the shot I was too wired to sleep, so I decided to have a nice hot bath instead. The Westin helpfully has a glass window between the bathroom and the bedroom so you can watch tellie while you soak. I caught up on a very entertaining episode of Ellen and felt marginally better, but still very green-gilled.
Even the prescription anti-nausea meds DD dispensed when he arrived didn’t stem the sea-sickness.
In a nutshell, the rest of his birthday went pretty much like this: me too squeamish to drink the French champers I’d snuck into the hotel, me too squeamish for birthday cocktails and canapes at Stitch, me too squeamish for birthday dinner and me asleep at 9pm.
Aaaaannnd repeat yesterday.
Poor DD … as if horrifying him with blog tales about accidental gastro farts wasn’t bad enough (I’ve suggested he might need to unsubscribe to keep the romance alive).
I’ve promised to make it up to him next year.
Promising to be less Ms TMI is a little trickier.
He, on the other hand, keeps threatening to write a guest blog about the downsides of dating a blogger.
Promises, promises …
Song of the day: Marilyn Monroe “Happy birthday”