I still feel like shit today, but because my dad is at home all day I had to keep getting in and out of bed to see to his demands. He hates it when I am ill because I can’t do as much to look after him as I normally do. Most people get grapes or chicken soup when they are ill, I get a miserable 75 year old who sits in his chair grumbling loudly about how selfish I’m being.
The deadly disease I’m carrying is a chest infection. I’m told that these are easily curable, but I’m adamant that I have an unknown strain that will (hopefully) see me off soon. Maybe they will name it after me (You’ve got a Dean Saliba infection).
I hate feeling like this and I’m not sure what is worse, the bouts of shivering cold or the sweating where I have to change my bedding every hour … at least I THINK they are soaking wet from sweat, I didn’t actually smell it, because that would be nasty!
Not even my beloved Millwall could cheer me up tonight as they bent over and let Burton Albion fuck them up the arse.