I tottered back into work yesterday, but geez it was a struggle.
My boss, who came down with the lurgy first, with three more of us quickly following, had the air-conditioning scrubbed out with tea tree oil while I was gone. She also said her doctor reckons it’s a two-week recovery time, so I’m only halfway there.
I tottered back home again early and took to my bed.
Being in bed with the flu always reminds me of that time I was mistaken for an ice addict.
Remember that one? It was a corker.
Three years ago, I was face-down in bed coughing and feeling sorry for myself when the phone rang.
“Hi Alana, it’s Kim,” said the woman on the other end of the line.
I scrabbled around in my flu-addled brain trying to work out who Kim was – didn’t recognise the voice AT ALL – and started stalling.
“Sorry, I have the flu, feeling a bit fuggy …”
“Oh … well, maybe now isn’t the best time to talk,” said Kim. “But I just want you to know that I’m there for you. You can call me any time. You can talk to me about anything. I just want you to know that.”
And I’m like, riiiiiighhhht … whoever the fark you are, that’s nice …
“So, if the stuff people are saying about you is true,” she continues.
Huh? Sorry? What?
“And you are using Ice,” Kim continued.
“Er, I think you have the wrong number,” I interjected.
Kim sounded suspicious – I’m presuming because drug-farked people and flu-addled suburban mums sound quite similar on the phone.
“It’s Alana, isn’t it?” She queried.
“Yes. But I’m not using Ice, so you must have the wrong Alana.”
“Is this Alana XXXXX,” she asked.
“No, Alana HOUSE.”
“Oh … OK … Er, well, I’m just going to end this conversation right now, sorry …”
Like I always say, freaky stuff like that seems to be a permanent staple in my life.
Never a dull moment and all that …
But, like death and taxes, there’s something you can count on with me – I’ll never be an ice addict.
I mean, my nickname used to be Operation Noah for gawd’s sake.
I’ve been particularly virtuous over the past seven days – not a drop of coffee or alcohol has passed my lips.
Well, I couldn’t resist a few swigs of that new Pure Blonde 60% less sugar cider at my work Melbourne Cup lunch yesterday, but it didn’t agree with me AT ALL.
And not just because I’m sick. If that’s what cider with 60% less sugar tastes like I’m just going to have to suck up the calories in the real thing.
Sorry Pure Blonde, it’s a thumbs down from me.
Do you have a funny mistaken identity story?
Song of the day: Talking Heads “Once in a lifetime”