Lindsay Horne is Unwell. No, actually ill, with a cold.

I am ill, and being ill makes me grumpy. I’m really too ill to write, but too grumpy not to. The most infuriating thing about being ill, for me, is my absolute inability to accept it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these people who soldiers on through thick and thin, valiantly honouring existing commitments like some massive bloody martyr. By my estimation, about 95 per cent of women (and yes, it’s mostly women), think that they’re oh-so-much-cleverer than everyone else for doing this, as if they’re uniquely put-upon and long-suffering, and have no choice but to keep going, against the odds. Well, yes you have, you have got a choice. I, for example, have chosen to spend the day lying on the sofa in my pyjamas and dressing gown.

No, if you think you’re being heroic for going to work/whatever when you’re ill, then you are, in fact, not properly ill. Because let me tell you, if I tried anything like that, I would pass out. Today, my normal pallor has gone off the scale. I feel like a character from an Edgar Allan Poe story. Perhaps that guy from “The Fall of the House of Usher”, who lounges about the place seeing visions in the curtains. About an hour ago, I think I had a little nap, but could not really be sure, since my brain was just doing its own thing at the time, so I was uncertain as to whether or not I had lost conscious, or was just awake-dreaming.

Anyway, back to the people refusing to lie down and be ill. For one thing, it’s presumably an evolutionary advantage to have a nice rest in the metaphorical cave when you’re sick. You don’t want to get your whole gang of cavemen gored by a mammoth because you slowed them down with your pathetic coughing and hammy sighs. No, better to have a kip by the fire, and get them to bring you back some nice mammoth broth, or whatever they had instead of Lucozade in the olden days. Also, we all know that those who won’t take time off work when sick are just doing it to make themselves feel indispensable. Well, here’s some news: You’re not that important. Nobody is. Just sit still and shut up. You’ll get better much more quickly.

If this has perhaps a touch of hypocrisy about it, I would like to point out that I am typing on a netbook, which is so light, and has such a little keyboard, that I am really not having to physically exert myself at all. I’m supposed to be going to a jobsearch seminar thing tomorrow, but I’m buggered if I’m going to. Shame actually, because there was a free lunch involved. Anyway. I just wanted to make the points that soldiering on through your supposed illness does not make you a superhero, and that being ill makes me even grumpier than usual. But I’m tired now, and my mother’s just arrived with a box of Lemsip and some Flora. The Flora’s for toast – I wasn’t completely delirious when I asked for it. I will be writing more, on a less self-indulgent subject, when recovered.