Cresting over a fevered brow

Today the office seemed especially cold. To prevent the air conditioners blowing on their desks, people have been sellotaping sheets of paper over the vents to redirect the flow. Unfortunately for me, that has meant a constant deluge of icy cold air onto my head from every direction.

By 3 I couldn't think straight. By four I was shivering, hands numb, cold tremors running through my joints. I put it down to this morning's abortive run (1 mile in lamentable time) and an overdose of coffee. By 6 it was time to go home.

It wasn't time to go home. It was time to go out for a birthday celebration. Initially I felt good to be out in the warm, but as the night worn on and I battled with the pizza, I could feel myself deterioating. I thought it was just that I'd overstuffed myself, reacting to an unfamiliar food.

I was being an idiot. The only food that's unfamiliar to me is food that isn't pizza.

We walked back, my stomach and bowels full of concrete. Farting concrete, like some dodgy labourers had cut corners and blended limestone with petrified methane. My head hurt. Walking was a trial, a possibly successful enterprise.

I got home, sat on the toilet, was greeted only by disappointment. Back up I got, querulous and faint, and my wife measured my temperature. 38.2. You only get that from pizza if it's had a topping of highly allergenic penicillin, and although Singapore cares for its residents' health, I don't think they've gone that far.

We put me to bed, put the air conditioner on for the third time that we've been in our flat, and I tried to avoid curling up like a dead leaf. Oh, what a way to start the week.