As soon as I woke up today I knew I wasn’t well. My throat was on fire and my head was all fuzzy even before I started popping some paracetamol. This was no day for braving the elements or trying to be nice to people – it was a day to stay in, keep warm and get better.
So, I got to wondering if there was anything apart from my throat spray and over the counter drugs that would help; definitely I’d feel better if I was hungry cos I love to eat. Maybe some cake. Some gooey chocolately cake wouldn’t scrape at my raw throat and would go down oh so easily. And maybe if Christian Bale brought me the cake and then sat down beside me, offering to rub my back and see if there’s anything else I wanted him to do. I think that would help. Kittens and a new handbag would also help. A basketful of kittens would be better. They could be all small and cute and not quite grown into their ears yet. They’d all start to wake up and waddle across the floor, all big eyed and inquisitive about everything. And when they spotted my fabulous new D & G leather handbag, I’d even take the precious cargo out of the dust jacket and open it up for them all to start clambering into. That’d make me laugh and then I’d feel better. After a little while when they all sat on my knee, their tiny purrs and sleepy faces would definitely help me forget how sick I was.
There’d be an episode of ‘Sex and the City’ on telly that I haven’t seen and then myself and Mariella Fostrop would laugh at the same bit, before she asks me to come on her show to talk about how fabulous I am. The two of us would be swapping mobile numbers, in between her admiring my taste in authors, jewellery and wine when the knock on the door disturbs us. I’d be feeling a lot better, so much so that I’d answer the door myself only to be swept up into the leather clad arms of Dave Gahan, as he serenades me with that sexy voice. Dave would lovingly plonk some Disprin into a bottle of water taken from his jeans pocket, hand it to me and sling his jacket around my shoulders. Then he’d tell me he could see me in the crowd at his last gig before telling me I’d be backstage for the next one.
Getting tired with ne’er a feline in sight, drifting to my bedroom on a marshmallow pillow is the most lovely feeling. Then standing at the open door would be Christian Slater, basket of retrieved kittens in hand, telling me that he’s staying the night to look after me. And that I can have whatever I like for breakfast. Then I’d just think about how great it would be to wake up tomorrow and not feel sick.