To say that Christmas was a write off this year would be an understatement.
I’m going to try not make this a self pitying post, but forgive me if I lament my woes.
Christmas Eve Eve, the last time you want to find out you’ve got a particularly nasty case of tonsillitis. Cue a frantic trip to the Doctors, and a course of antibiotic’s.
Christmas Eve, feeling sorry for myself, because I’m finally allowed to. Last minute wrapping of presents and resolving myself to the fact that I won’t be spending Christmas with my Aussie Mum and her wonderful family because I’m just too ill.
Ringing to tell her as such.
Putting myself to bed with some hot honey and lemon, toast and a glass for spitting because swallowing has become too painful to bear.
Briefly seeing Lyds, who brings her family in to say hi and feeling like it was the worst possible time she could have done that.
Christmas Day, sleeping, trying to swallow, not feeling too much better. Skyping family, not pretending I was having a nice day (which was entirely selfish, but I was not).
Soup, sleeping, suddenly able to swallow again.
Which is pretty much where I am right now. It’s a lovely sunny day, but I’ve just been in the dark trying to sleep away my tonsillitis.
I think the antibiotics are starting to work because I am feeling better. Enough that I’m guilty for being so miserable on Skype this morning and guilty for not making the effort to go round to Meg’s.
But then again, those decisions were made based on how I felt at the time, which wasn’t great.
So my first ‘hot Christmas’ was a complete waste.
My first Christmas spent entirely alone.
Statement of fact, not a search for pity.
Just…how am I supposed to tell if I’m going to enjoy a lifetime of hot Christmases if, in a sort of morbid way, it’s turned out like every other Christmas with me being insufferably ill.
Perhaps it’s meant to be…