Crook

I am poorly.

After three days of simultaneously ignoring symptoms and mainlining Beechams I have accepted that I am sick.

Annoyingly my cold has scuppered my plans for a whistle stop tour of my friends across the UK. Being that the stairs are proving a challenge I didn't think my first time driving on the left and using gears in 8 months should be marred by pain killers and (slightly hallucinogenic) decongestants.

So I am laid up in my family home with my mum bringing me orange squash and trying to feed me up. Mums bringing endless supplies of sandwiches and cups of tea is as international as Esperanto.

I suppose I'm quite lucky to have fallen ill in the UK as my lack of a US driving licence or passport means my arsenal of sickness fixers would be lacking Sudafed. Because my British passport is indicative of meth cooking, apparently.

With my dad as patient zero, the next few days will mainly consist of communicating with him from our respective bedrooms via Skype, trying to remember which mug has hot water and tiger balm in not tea and swallowing glass.. or at least it feels like it.