I’m assuming the foetal position on the front room sofa.
A small square pillow is lodged between my knees, another is pressed against my belly like a shield.
Enveloped in my floor length violet dressing gown, hood and all,
My silver laptop is positioned on the oak coffee table in front of me.
The opening credits of You’ve Got Mail are starting to play.
From the corner of my eye I can see outside, rain is pounding the next door neighbour’s car roof.
It’s grey, stormy and overcast, perfect conditions for a sick day,
Although, the words “perfect” and “sick day” don’t seem to sit well in the same sentence.
I reach for a plush blanket folded neatly by the drapes,
An untouched piece of buttered toast lies in a plate next to my laptop,
That metallic, sickly taste that we all loathe has laid claim to my tastebuds.
A 3/4 full bottle of water sits redundantly on the rug,
Even drinking this feels like a chore right now.
As Meg Ryan appears on screen, I take a quick swig of the bottle and sink back into the sofa,
Spreading the blanket and pulling it up to my chin I let out a sigh,
Things could be worse I guess, I could be at work right now!