Linger

The constant house guest. That stubborn bubble of fat on your inner thigh. Boris Johnson.

Some things simply will not go away.

Despite doing all within my power – from mainlining vitamin C to furtively leaning over and coughing on Napoleon whilst he sleeps – this flu is determined not to bid adieu.

I get it, really, I do.

A wise-cracking Yorkshire girl, I like to make people laugh. I will indulge conversation on topics diverse as the historical development of the Eurozone to the X Factor. I’m a good listener. If that’s your bag, my companionship is not too shabby.

The flu is lapping it up.

I have taken to a new hobby – having, as I do, little more for entertainment than the occasional thrill of a sneeze – to stave away the delirium that comes with being kept bedbound. It’s fun. You’d like it.*

With the central heating whacked to its farthermost setting, I sit in bed – propped amongst discarded tissues and Strepsils – and browse the internet, where I daydream over wintry, cosy clothes. Jumpers. Scarves. Long Johns. The tin foil section on Tesco.com.

Anything to keep the warmth in, frankly.

I have revisited these Burberry Prorsum coats more than most. There’s something of the Nancy Mitford heroine to them: I imagine draping myself grandly and – with a large, theatrical flourish of their tails – hamming my part as the sickened martyr.

Well, come on… I could act that better than Boris does being Mayor.

* You won’t. No one, with a life, would.

|Fashionising|

Beginning

So, that’s out the way for another year… 

Christmas, I mean.

Although the season brings cheer to many, Napoleon mutates – on first sniff of a mince pie – into the Grinch and is not restored to his affable self until the clock chimes on the twelfth night of Christmas.

It can make for a climate more implosive than the Middle East and calls for diplomacy much beyond my ‘I’m hungover/ The turkey is still raw after nine hours of cooking/ If my family were sold in a shop, I wouldn’t pick them off the shelf’ emotional state.

Thankfully, with my return to the office tomorrow – and the comforting normalcy of a ‘Work, Eat, Sleep’ routine – this period of enforced coexistence with Dr. Seuss’ (non) fictional character will draw to a close.

In the wake of a less than Hallmark-perfect Christmas, it would be madness beyond fathom to compound my disappointment with a list of impossible to keep – soon to be broken – New Year’s resolutions…

Wouldn’t it?

1. When Napoleon asks whether I might pass an editorial gaze over his PhD drafts, I will do so with the grace and good humour shown towards one of my authors.  I will no longer (a) Sneer, (b) Snort, (c) Roll my eyes with teenage melodrama, or (d) Scrawl ‘This is Crap’ in the margins.

2. I will take up drinking.  I’ve never been one to follow the flock and, with everyone else quitting firewater at this time of the year, there’ll be more to go around for me.

3. Having promised to do so many times, I will finally save my pennies for a Burberry trench and skip around smugly come the rain showers of April.  April 2015, that is.  Burberry coats are bloody expensive.

4. I will no longer compare myself to others.  My low self-esteem is taking a holiday.

In the spirit of hope and turning over a new leaf, I had also thought to add one final resolution promising to update my blog more frequently…

But let’s keep things realistic, kids.

|Retrofuturs|