I felt fine on Christmas morning. It was at about 1pm that a slight feeling of nausea drifted round my head, and a tell-tale chill descended. I ignored it as much as I could and got through lunch.
As the Queen blathered on I helped with the washing up, feeling rough. Then I made my excuses, abandoned the celebrations and went to bed for a couple of hours. Aches, shivers, feverish.
I struggled downstairs for Doctor Who (summary: not bad, standard RTD cheesy fare) and sat through various other Christmas TV shows feeling generally rubbish – like most of the TV shows, in fact.
Back in bed I didn’t sleep much: a thumping heart, a sheen of sweat, unhappy joints, semi-delirious thoughts. All to the accompaniment of Fairytale of New York, which has been in my head all week.
I must have slept for a few hours as I woke up to a mild headache and nothing else. That has eased during the day, leaving me feeling no worse than if I’d been up till 4am or something.
As Christmas presents go, not the best.
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