Friday night is ‘special’. Anyone can do it but for Jews its always special. Its a family night. A get together. And we celebrate the start of the sabbath (drink whisky), re-align with the spiritual world (eat chopped liver) and re-affirm our closeness with God (that’ll be the roast chicken then). And its a wonderful tradition and its delightfully inclusive in that if you hear of any ‘strays’ knocking around on a Friday night, or friends of the kids in town or anyone worthy, you get them involved. Even if they’re unworthy fucking freeloaders, you do what you have to. Because its nice. And for some reason food never tastes quite as good as it does on Friday night.

And last night I didn’t go. As Friday nights have been moved to Lila’s house so we don’t have to move her, when I arrived home from work, I parked my bike and thought… BED! Along with ‘warm’ and ‘unmoving’ and ‘sleep’. Its probably the first Friday night dinner I’ve missed in my entire 61 years, other than holidays. Of which there have been a few, I grant you.

Because, in medical parlance, I felt like shit. Worse than shit. Like… Donald Trump’s shit.

I’ve had some undefinable, persistent, horrible condition for about 2 weeks. And because of staff shortages, I’ve had to go to work every day, when really I should have been at home with a team of nurses, doctors and masseuses, or in a hospital. But in the mornings I feel relatively ok. I cough a bit, but otherwise quite normal. Then as the day progresses I get achy, shivery, cold, hot and the coughing increases horribly, which means every muscle in my body gets strained. Even the ones that were aching from the flu symptoms. And I get really tired. Like, ridiculously tired. The journey home, 45 minutes of relatively easy travel, felt like the homecoming of Odysseus.

I was asleep by 7.30 last night, just couldn’t stay awake, needed to be warm. Then of course I woke up drenched in sweat, but that’s fine because I don’t have to go anywhere. I slept for about 12 hours. A record. Though Lila’s beaten that and she’s only had 10 months to compete.

No tennis, no martial arts, no nuffink. I’m officially ‘resting’. Other than an appointment with a doctor this afternoon. Only opening my eyes for the rugby and for tomorrow’s virtual entire day of football on tv. Its like the Gods of Sky knew I’d need mindless entertainment so saved 3 entire matches, all really exciting prospects, for my special day.

When man-flu becomes just flu, you know there’s a problem. If I was a horse they’d shoot me. And if I was a French horse, they’d then eat me. So it could be worse. Just doesn’t feel that’s possible.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx