On spending the day in bed

If you think you're coming down with something, then I really don't advise flying to Sydney and back in the same day for work-related meetings.

Although I do advise sitting at a bar at Sydney airport on Wednesday afternoons drinking two glasses of Cab Sav and flirting with a 28 year old electrician from Dubbo called Paul who sadly had a wedding ring on his finger which prevented me from politely inviting him to a nearby hotel for a few hours of ravishmen,t while you kill the hour before your flight home.

Sat on couch last night, watched two epsiodes of Heroes (thanks Simon) and crawled into bed feeling a bit off colour. Woke this morning feeling positively... (searches for creative way of saying fully off colour - umm, palette-able? Shit I dunno).. shithouse. Coughing, sweaty, feverish, ick.

Rang station and cancelled radio show. Rang or emailed guests and cancelled interviews. Crawled back into bed. Dreamt I was lying on a black beach beneath an oven light arguing about economics and art. Odd.

Woke. Staggered out of sweaty bed. Ate lunch. Crawled back into bed.

Woke. Rang fellow DJs and told them I wouldn't make it to work tonight. Back to bed. Dreamt something complicated involving Steve Bracks, the mechanical shark from Jaws, a bottle of Pernod and the repeated use of the phrase 'Daddy wouldn't like that.' Odder.

Woke. Fretted about the state of my subconcious. Had dinner. Checked emails. Fuck, 127 of the fuckers. Decided to blog briefly instead.

Am going back to bed now. Just had brief moment of angst over lack of handsome man by my bedside who would mop my fevered brow and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Decide he will probably appear in my dream arguing about economics with a mechanical Steve Bracks while I make art on a black beach.

Worry about my subconcious.

I hate being sick.