Death, I hear thy rattle

I'm dying.

Well... I have a cold and, as someone at work recently said to me, men are shit at being ill.
Actually, I'm usually quite good but I'm just using my cold as a reason to blog, so shut up.

I have a blocked nose and it's pissing me off.
When I inhale, I sound far too much like a pervert sniffing stolen panties... or so I imagine.

I have never, and will never, enjoyed 'blowing my nose' and actually haven't done this terrible deed since I was about seven.
That was the age when my grandad would spit into a hanky and wipe my face, or hold a tissue to my nose and insist that I blow.
I don't think he was grooming me...

I remember having a bath at that age and then having my head so vigourously rubbed dry I would be dizzy for a minute or two after.
Why do grandparents/parents DO that?!
Answer me, parents!

(More on my parents later... probably).

Anyway, this is a rambling post so I'll stop now.
It's Wednesday, it's sunny, and I might go for a walk.
Toodles.

PS. Pity welcome. I'm ill, damn it!