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Today I’m taking a sickie. An actual real sick day. Well, as real as you can get when you’re a mum. I’ve come down with a humongous head cold. I say humongous because that’s what I feel my head looks like. Like a bulging mass of swollen gunk. My ears are blocked, my nose changes from being blocked one minute to leaking furiously the next, and my eyes are glazed. And I’m cold. Even if I crawled inside the gas log fire I don’t think I would be warm enough.

So, I’m taking a day off. Which in mum terms means doing the barest minimum. I’ve taken sick leave from my paid work (aka told husband the accounts and quotes for our business won’t be getting done today), and I’m doing only the necessities at home which is cooking dinner. The rest can wait.

The best thing about being a writer, is when you’re sick, you can still write. I’ve hauled myself up on the couch, surrounded myself with a box of tissues, water, comfy cushions and a stack of blankets. I have by notebooks for the two books I’m working on, a pen, and of course, my laptop. I also have the book I’m currently reading – Sally Hepworth’s The Family Next Door, sitting next to me (which I’m finding hard to put down). I’m waiving the guilt that I should be doing other things, and telling myself to listen to my body and rest. And I tell you, apart from the humongous head thing, I feel totally, perfectly content. If I weren’t sick, this would be my dream existence.

All I need know is hubby to offer to do school pick up and dance drop offs, and handle dinner, and my day will be complete. But hey, I’m also a realist and that ‘aint going to happen.

Still, for the next few hours I’m not leaving this couch. I’m going to rest, read, write, and recuperate.

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