Sick and wrong.

Being unwell is universally rubbish isn’t it?

It’s like having your head drained and then refilled with warm orange juice, before being forced to wear someone else’s skin for a few days.

I hate how everything sounds a little bit underwatery and you get that pointless and frustrating cold ache that makes you feel like a terminally miserable nonagenarian made entirely of light brown and vinegar.

Whenever I feel unwell it reminds me of being a child, when all your healthcare concerns were thrust mercilessly upon you by others. When Calpol seemed like some sort of bizarre treat and anti-biotics appeared to be made from banana.

For some reason, I remember saltw@ter featuring highly in virtually all home remedies. Along with TCP and the sort of fabric plaster that was a superficial skin-tone physically impossible for anyone other than the bastard supernatural offspring of an action man and a sexually viable hearing-aid.

We have basically two choices when faced with a general illness.

You either head for your GP, by first navigating a switchboard that exists outside generally accepted principles of space and time, then a receptionist equipped with the social skills and demeanor of a faulty gas oven.


You wobble off to a Chemist and try to buy the closest thing possible to an illegal hoard of narcotics that your wallet and their consciences will allow.

For me, it’s only ever going to be option two, because despite the increasingly unnerving fact that absolutely ALL Chemist’s shops smell EXACTLY THE SAME, at least they are not filled with dreadful magazines, elderly people and a horribly messy pile of old and broken children’s toys.

So, self-medication it is.

And there begins that brilliant medical phase where you line up your newly bought treatments in the kitchen. Proudly, but desperately, studying the maximum doses. Willing for deviation from the eternal truth of four hour time-frames and patients not over the seemingly magical age of twelve years.

And no matter what you do, you will open the packet at the end that has the leaflet folded across it, like a cruel barrier to your foil-wrapped saviour.

And no matter what you hope for, you’ll never quite get the quick-fix you need.

Maybe there was something in that medicinal saltw@ter stuff in the first place…