That’s one word to describe this morning.

I’ve had some kind of tickly cough for over a week now, and going to gym last Monday only seemed to make it worse, so I decided to give myself a break for a few days. A few days came and went and the weekend arrived (which, by the way, I now hate. Weekends used to be great, but as someone on garden leave, they just get filled up with other people not at work.) As it happened, the weekend was spent in Bristol from Friday to Sunday, and then I got back to see the kids for a few hours on Sunday afternoon.

I still don’t feel 100% now, and woke up late yesterday and therefore decided to skip gym again. I’m not still fully ok with the idea of going to the gym at anything later than 8am as I have this idea it’ll be full of super fit posers all staring at me as I wobble along on the running machine. My old mum though, who’s been going to the same gym for a couple of months now, and was the inspiration for me to get my arse in gear and join, went yesterday. On her return she told me that the instructors there had told her they hadn’t seen me in the gym recently and would be chasing me up! Cheeky sods! I felt like I was back at school and being told off for bunking. It’s even cheekier given the fact that I have barely seen a trainer in there, let alone spoken to any, since I first joined.

So, with heavy heart (or should that be “heavy chest” thanks to the weight of mucus I seem to be bloody carrying), I got my backside out of bed this morning and went down there. I’m now back, sweaty and smelly and in desperate need of a shower, though I am reliably informed by a text message that being hot and sweaty is no bad thing, which made me smile.

The plan of action today is: Wash. Get dressed. Post a letter to Tasha congratulating her on the new job (I’m sending it to the hotel she’s staying in on her course this week, so fuck knows if it’ll actually find it’s way past Reception). Weigh, buy stamps for, and post the sitcom script to the BBC - It’s been sitting in the car for two weeks as every time I go near a Post Office it has had a queue out of the door. In fact, it ended up with so many kiddy footprints over it, I’ve had to rewrite the envelope to make it look presentable). Read the book I took out from the library - Alan Davies (My Favourite People and Me), which is due back next week and has been reserved by someone else, so I can’t renew it, but isn’t too good so it’s a pain trying to read it. Then I’m off to Romford for dinner tonight.

I dare say I’ll fit in time for a coffee or two at some point, especially as the Post Office in Chelmsford is situated in WHSmiths, as is, conveniently, Costa Coffee.

As for life in general, there is stuff going on which I guess I need to blog about, but can’t find the inclination to do so. Fortunately it’s all good stuff, which is nice, and I’ve also sent the script to a new competition called Sitcom Saturday, which it seemed to (broadly) meet the rules of. It wasn’t specially tailored for it though, so I’m not holding my hopes up.

And finally… I have got my divorce papers through! At last! Almost 3 years after Mel and I decided to split, and more than 2 years after we started proceedings, I am officially divorced! It was ironic that we were told for definite on 1st March, which was the tenth anniversary of us actually getting together, but it was a welcome relief, that’s for sure.

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