is it thursday yet?

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When my alarm rudely shrieked in my ear this morning I was convinced it was Thursday. Is it Thursday? Did I sleepwalk through Wednesday? Alas, it would appear not. Husband has the coronavirus. No, sorry. Man-flu. Husband has man-flu. Well, just a cold and a cough really, but you know how boys are when they get a little tickle in their throat ... I'm dying! Save me! We have a lot of people like that in my staff room, but {perhaps somewhat surprisingly?} they're women. They are absolute Drama Queens, in competition with each other to be the one who is most in pain, or the one who can offer the best advice. Yoga. Turmeric. CBD oil. Snakeskin lotion. Bat pee. That kind of thing. This week it's the turn of my pretty polished Polish pal. You know how it is when somebody wants attention for their ailments, but doesn't want to bluntly bring it up? The moans. The sighs. The pained face as they stretch ... everything becoming more pronounced as you fail to respond, until finally you have no choice but to ask. I do sympathise. I have empathy. I'm an outwardly kind soul. But occasionally it reaches the point where I have to switch off; chronic pain and fatigue are my life. How they feel today is how I feel every bloody day. I just try not to draw attention to my pain. Why should I inflict my suffering into others? Yesterday I was chatting to a student who was bemoaning the early hour. Poppylicious, I have decided that I will be driving by the summer holidays! he proclaimed. I can't cope with the bus anymore. I'm not living; I'm merely existing. Welcome to adulthood, young man. Welcome to the rest of your life.