I am properly ill. I have even jibbed out of tonight's game of squash, I am that properly ill.
My wife is a towering beacon of sympathy. Not. She claims that I have a mild case of manflu. Bollocks, this almost qualifies as manthrax, so severely has it debilitated me. I am even struggling to drink beer and smoke fags. I told you it was serious.
I am off to my Mum's in Abergavenny tomorrow night, hooligans in tow. I shall return on Saturday, they won't. It's half term, they're going to stay with Grandma, yay!
On Saturday morning I have more family duties to fulfill. I will call in to see my Grandfather who is now ninety one, and not in the best of health. I hope he's not too confused, Mum says he's had a bad couple of weeks. After that it's have lunch with my Grandma. She's eighty seven, quite sprightly, but has aged noticeably in the past few years, particularly in the ear department. There will be lots of shouting.
In the evening, I'll force myself off my deathbed to attend a cocktail party. This may sound sophisticated. It won't be. It will be all of the usual suspects drinking as much as they can before it's time to leggit home for the babysitter.The only difference being that we'll be getting squiffy on mojitos instead of beer and wine. The men may be wearing slightly smarter shirts than usual.
On Sunday I'll be waddling off my hangover with a training session at the rugby club. Despite my son being away, and despite my manthrax, I will honour my coaching commitment. Grudgingly.