Illness stay at bay, so I can dance the night away

I feel an evil niggling in my throat, and the beginnings of an impending cough. I did think my candle was looking a little fried both top and bottom after last week. But I refuse to have my wild'n'wacky weekend sabotaged by a bout of bacteria, and so purchased questionable-brown-coloured bottle of Vicks Acta Plus Cough Syrup, aka instant cough death. Tastes like nine-year-old insect-infused syrup blended with jagermeister and a dollop of bovril. Gagged at desk, but stomached it in light of tomorrow's festivities. Will be up at 7:30 sharp tomorrow, Bok shirt on and ready to smash a freezo/bubbly while the boys drool over the game. Jokes, I'm totally into it! And got my England scarf ready and waiting for Sunday's game. I've gone rugby mad. Have actually arranged all weekend plans this weekend around games ---> like, wherever I end up crashing after night out on Sat must have large TV, waffle maker and myprodol; and organised to go to freezo place at 8am tomorrow instead of usual (and preferred) 10:30am just so can watch the game...

Tonight at girls' dinner I was meant to be the Bacardi Mojito Mix + Ice Crusher Machine supplier chick, seeing as I won these two things at work last week. (When I say 'won' I mean that when my editor held up the bottle and kindly started asking who might want to... ... before she could even finish her sentence I let out some sort of rabid bark and legged it to her desk to snatch up the must-have alcoholic hamper before anyone else in the office even had the chance. Probably wasn't such a good idea right before my performance review. But at least they can see I'm quick off the mark and I go after my dreams.) Have had texts this morning: 'Olive! Can't wait for mojito night.' Shit. How do I inform them that the boys and I got sucked into phuza Thursday spirit last night and drained every last drop of tipple. What was meant to be a quiet eve, a single mojito with chorizo pasta dinner turned into pint glasses brimming with crushed ice and Bacardi mix heaven, showered in limes and mint resulting in sugar high and blurred vision. Came home bottleless. And senseless. As a gesture of apology will take along crusher and turn everyone's drinks into fabulous slush puppies.

Hope I'm still invited.

For some unknown reason I idiotically decided to put entire wardrobe in the wash. Now everything is soaked right before the weekend. And let's just say a tumble dryer is not on my list of affordable luxuries (that would consist of one Mac product a month, one item of clothing a year, leg waxes, and Champagne). So, if you see me wandering round the Cape in bell bottoms you could camp under (a gypsie-esque phase in first year I'd very much like to forget), and a top fashioned from a tea towel... you know why. Will be desperately trying to dry everything on my 5cm by 10cm heater for night out on the town tomorrow. Can prob fit one item per hour. I best start now.

"Don't leaf me behind!"

Easy does it

This weekend has come at an excellent time. This ball of snot needs a timeout. Movies and looooots of healthy food (I eat more than usual when I'm sick because there's nothing else to do). Haven't touched bubbly in a week, which in my case deserves a frikken' medal. Or a bottle of Champagne. But going to get rid of this blasted cold first before I get back on my horse. Have been avoiding phone calls from friends in case someone tempts me with an awesome, unturndownable night on the town...

A quiet eveing lies ahead. TV, takeaways... Whilst Lovely Boyfriend is off galavanting around Cape Town, sidekick-less. Which I'm sure he much prefers!

Tomorrow kicks off with a complimentary 'high tea' at the One&Only (a media thing). Am taking Lovely Boyfriend's sister so we can dress up and go gossip our faces off over Lindt chocolate fondants. If my passages decide to clear, then I might replace tea with bubbly. But my ears are so blocked that I am quite literally 'playing it by ear'.

Sunday, Lovely Boyfriend and I are reviewing Tashas in Constantia. I plan on that being my only meal of the day (saving cash) and so am aiming to try the majority of the menu. Lovely Boyfriend is about to witness something he's never before seen.

That's all from me. I'm boring when I'm sick. 

Forkin' great

I went to Fork on Long Street last night for dinner. I'm still dreaming about the tiny golden fried balls of goat's cheese euphoria that were served to me on little sundried tomato crackers with an onion marmalade. Orgasmic to say the least. Before I realised it, I was hugging the waiter and thanking him for changing my life. They're not so attractive to eat however, since biting into the delicacy means melted goat's cheese oozes out the sides of your mouth. But it's okay - lovely boyfriend is sick and has stuff oozing out of his nose. So he was unable to pass judgement.

So I got my nautical-themed dress at the ready, have undergone the various necessary waxing procedures/torture, and am ready to bubbly and bikini it up for a cruisin' afternoon in the jacuzzi, the wind flowing through my mouse-coloured tresses. If I don't have a cold by tomorrow I'll be gobsmacked since I've spent all week in close proximity to sickly boyfriend (although I insisted he remain at arm's lenght), plus I spotted one or two eskimos tottering around my office earlier this week. Despite the searing heat outside, arctic temperatures in here mean I'm frost-bound to my keyboard and drinking tea for Africa. But I seem to be the only one who can feel it...?

So afraid of getting sick that I actually ran away from my flatmate this morning when she sneezed. She wasn't impressed.

Road to recovery: bubbly beginnings

So after three whole days strewn across my bed surrounded by snotty tissues, reeking of Vix, mouth wide open (for respiratory reasons), the constant need to switch the fan on or off so as to comply with with my frequently adjusting fever, and ogling over Ian Somerhalder in Vampire Diaries Season 1, I was (quite suprisingly) rather keen to get back to the office this morning. 

Don't let the appeal of 'home' and 'bed' fool you during the week. It's profoundly boring being ill, in an empty house and trying to find something remotely watchable from a monumental conglomeration of shit on TV. And being confined to the house is even more of a problem if you have no food at home, which is why it's a good idea to have a boyfriend who has his own place. A guy's fridge never runs on empty.

Tonight I am going to Blakes – that new swanky hotspot on Buitengraght with a real breathtaker of a view and a rather sophisticated upper-class feel to it! And I've heard the food is nothing short of spectacular. I wish I wasn't feeling as if someone had stuffed sponges up my nose and encased my head in a small bubble, but I've been looking forward to tonight's triple date for too long to care. One glass of bubbly couldn't hurt? My medication only said that alcohol MIGHT aggravate/increase the side effects of drowsiness and concentration impairment. What's life without a little risk! And doesn't Champagne do that anyway?!

Snot my day...

This is me. And has been for the last two days. Much to lovely boyfriend's disgust, I too have left a trail of snotty tissues round his house, have gone through two rolls of loo paper in a day from blowing my nose, have cleared out his medicine cupboard and polished off two cartons of orange juice (which, incidentally I couldn't even taste). I have also been winy and teary every time he leaves me on my own (I'd certainly want to get out of that germ pitt if it were me!), kept him up in the night from snivelling and coughing, and demanded he have no friends over because of my dire illness. 

He is now sick. And I'm on the road to recovery. This is how it usually works with us. One gets sick, the other follows suit. Whatever medicine was left I forced down his throat last night.

So I'm back at work today. Still slightly dazed and dosed up, I almost left the house in my pyjamas, holding a mug of Med Lemon before I then realised I should perhaps change and have a shower. However, even after my concerted effort to look presentable (and I think I did a pretty good job) I still arrived at work to a horde of 'God, you look awful, are you alright?' 'Shame, you look terrible, you should go home'. Apparently the flick of mascara, clean hair and a brush of blush did absolutely nothing to lift my sickly, pallid appearance. 

Guess the red nose was a total giveaway.