Sick, sick, sick

I have a cold. It's a really nasty cold. I blame the woman at work who insisted on coming in all week, despite being ill, because she thought she'd be letting the team down by staying at home. I'd have much preferred having to cover her work than the current 'wasted weekend' situation that is emerging. I'm trying to work out how to put into words that this might actually be a good thing, but I can't quite explain. Something about how I don't think of myself as 'sick' as much as I used to, and how I'm adjusting fairly well to my impairment and how to live and work around it, so that I notice the difference. That sort of thing. OK, never mind. I'm miserable, all right? Stupid idiots who think that just because they can work through illness, it's fine to infect everyone else, including those who can't physically stay upright through a cold because it turns life into a mega sucky pain-fest. They are bad people.

In unrelated news, why are pubs so sodding inaccessible? Today the new PA and I went off looking for a venue for something (long story, don't ask) that has to be in a new location because the weather isn't likely to hold for much longer. I had to get out of my wheelchair about six times just to get over teeny tiny steps that could be ramped with the smallest quantity of concrete and some imagination. Won't be so much of a problem in the new manual, at least. Which I have chosen. It's going to be nice. Now we start the major battle with Access to Work over whether or not they're going to pay for it. They'd better agree soon, as it's going to be a four-week wait once it's ordered, and poor Ethel isn't really working out. This week was long and very tiring.

I shall now cease complaining and return you to your regularly scheduled programming of upbeat yet cuttingly sardonic observational wit. Thank you.