With Summer leaving, so begins the plethora of bugs and germs that sail in on the autumn winds to infect one and all and generally make life miserable. After finally falling asleep sometime after 3.30am to wake again at 6.00am, I’ve wallowed in self-pity in bed for a few hours. Before remembering that it’s not the end of the world and I do not have man flu.
But this gross feeling of razor blades tearing up the throat, has got me thinking of the times I’ve gotten sick when I’ve been travelling. Somehow the severity of sickness is multiplied whilst travelling. It can be the same symptoms you’ve suffered before when sick at home, but the fact that you are in a completely different place, often living in close quarters with unfamiliar people and the most important thing – mum less, automatically escalates the symptoms. There is something to be said for the healing properties of being at home in one’s own bed while sick. Maybe it’s the familiarity, maybe the creature comforts in close reach, personally I think it’s having a mum (or other family member) nearby to bring you “sick food” and other supplies to help you ride out the couple of days of feeling awful. I do not enjoy getting sick while travelling. It stops me in my tracks while I contemplate my impending death in a hostel room (or better yet, hostel communal toilet bowl) for a day or two. Then lo and behold some miracle of the universe, the travelling gods part the clouds of sickness and shine down upon me. One more day of recovery and I’m usually off again, the near death sickness experience a mere memory in the past. Forgotten about as quickly as it happened. Generally because there is nothing pleasant about the experience, so the memory is better left at the hostel (or flushed down the toilet).
In the mean time, I’ve moved my study headquarters from my desk to my bed, after yesterday’s dismal attempt at the desk. In the vain hope that by remaining as comfortable as possible, I may still get some work done. If all else fails, I’ll spend the day eating yoghurt, reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ and sleeping, until the razor blades disappear from my throat and I feel semi-human again.