I guess one of the supposed benefits (and there are precious few) of being ill is that it gives one time to muse, and to think deep thoughts, to ponder upon the nature of existence and the meaning of life. To consider the universe and one’s place within it. To come, in short, one tiny step closer to attaining understanding.
What actually happens, of course, is that you spend quite a lot of the time musing on how much of a pain in the arse it is to be ill, particularly on a bank holiday weekend when you had plans which you’ve had to cancel because you can’t climb the stairs without needing to take a break once you reach the top much less spend the day running around a field in Northamptonshire with a gun even though you booked and a bunch of your mates are going and you bought the camo gear and everything.
The rest of the time you don’t spend thinking about very much at all, because thinking is so very tiring.
Then you think about how you hardly ever post on your blog except to whinge about being ill when you’re ill.
Then you go for another lie down.
It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, being ill.
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