I have a fever. At the moment the paracetamol are working, but the last time they wore off I heard mechanical dogs barking in my head every time I blinked. All my housemates are out having fun at a party that I'm supposed to be at, except for the Indian man opposite, who has locked his door for the first time ever, possibly because he heard me moaning to myself like a phantom. There is nothing to cheer me up except an almost-finished box of Baileys chocolates and one of those horrible bottles of Italian wine that off-licences buy for 20p and sell off for £3.99, which I bought when I was drunk.
I moved in two weeks ago with just a suitcase. None of the things in the suitcase (pretty dresses! My new shoes! A motley selection of 'Teach Yourself French' coursebooks and a giant Yoga book, the combined weight of which was like dragging around a corpse!) are of any use in this situation. I have no television or DVD player, which means I can't watch 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' for the hundredth time. The only MP3 player I have with me plays the same twenty songs on a loop until you lose your mind.
This means that I've spent the whole day marooned on my bed in the middle of my enormous, empty room like a shipwreck survivor, shivering and reading the books I bought from a second-hand bookshop the other day. It's six o'clock and so far I've read two. One was 'Hotel du Lac', which was about some wilted woman mooning around in Switzerland. It was depressing. The other was a vaguely porno book about a schoolgirl who is seduced by her sadistic pervert of an English teacher who ends up keeping her in his house as his sex slave. That was pretty depressing as well. I so wish I'd bought the moronic book about the woman who goes to Italy, has an affair with a totally normal man and eats lots of pasta.
I realise that this isn't a very exciting first blog entry. Yesterday I got locked into the school I work at for nearly an hour by the evil, psychopathic caretaker, set off all the alarms in a blind panic, hung out of the window pleading with passers-by for help in manner of Fay Wray and in order to escape had to clamber out onto the edge and leap to the ground whilst accidentally flashing my knickers at a pissed-off policeman. But I didn't have a blog yesterday, and besides, that now seems like aeons ago.
It's like a sci-fi comic story I once read when I was a kid about a plane that crashes on an island peopled by weirdos in top hats, canes and funny moustaches, and the only thing there is to eat on the island is some strange seaweed. When our plane crash survivors manage to get back to New York a month or so later, it is full of flying cars and buildings that look like space hoppers.
My illness is just like that seaweed, only in reverse.
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