getting sick, getting well, hanging round the inkwell

Or, Beshemoth gets famous and horribly ill at the same time. Timing is everything.

So on Wednesday morning, the Surprise Sudden-Death Purging Bug had gone away! Woo! I can go back to work! Okay, it’s a qualified ‘woo’. But then, (when I was at work, of course) it sorta turned out it hadn’t gone away at all, it was just lying low, so work was rather… Interesting.

Fortunately, thanks to the power of modern technology, I bitched about this all over the internet, where Cake saw it and phoned to say, she has it too, this is the nature of this bug, it will go away and come back for about a week. Also, it is Viral. God bless Cake; because she works in a school, she comes down with absolutely everything just before I do, (working in a hospital) and can tell me how it goes. Come the zombie apocalypse, predicted to start in hospitals (erk), I owe her a very big favour.

But the Surprise Sudden-Death Purging Bug had more surprises up its sleeve and by Thursday it had turned into a stinking rotten Cold as well! Possibly due to the number of times I’ve been getting soaked to the bone by the weather, (currently running at three times a day). However, I compared notes with Cake, and she had the exact same symptoms despite having a car, so I grudgingly took Thursday off.

By which I mean, I staggered into the office (getting soaked to the bone in the process) to get Urgent Stuff Done in case everyone shouted at me for slacking off. Instead, everyone shouted at me to stagger back home at once before I infected them (hello, where do they think this came from? I have no social life!) So I slunk back into the storm, pausing halfway under a convenient supermarket covered walkway to write out a birthday card for my wee bro and be mistaken for a junkie.

Then I spent half the morning on the phone to work, begging my colleagues to sort out other Urgent things for me, and at midday, when I collapsed into bed for some kip, having done all I could [there’s a sucker born every minute – Ed], the phone rang again. And it was the clinic. Oh dear god, not Operation Frankenstein right now?

Nope. The Sunday Fucking Times, of all things, wants to interview me for an Article about Operation Frankenstein. Like, right now.

And no, they are not paying me.

Tell them to bugger off, I’m ill! I shouted. Then I lay in bed fretting about the timing of Operation Frankenstein versus my week off next week. My week off is a very precious thing, because I am planning to use it to do all the things I’m not getting done this week. Try combining work, a Life, and a daily course of sticking hormone-filled hypodermics in your stomach, overtime, plus knocking the fags, booze and caffeine on the head, and if you can get anything done besides strop and type (badly), you are a better person than I.

On the other hand, I would rather be working badly and bitching about it than at home on my tod, crying and trying to solve sine equations while going through all that. So it is vital to know when Operation Frankenstein might begin, so I can change my time off to keep the pair well clear of each other.

But alas, the clinic don’t know.

I was already narked at getting so little done this week, so I thought as long as I was on the phone to absolutely everyone anyway, at least I could conduct a phone interview with The Press from my sickbed. Woo, rock’n’roll! Sort of.

Being the sort of moron who is very, very paranoid about the sort of moron The Press might make me out to be*, I tried desperately to sound like what I think an upstanding citizen sounds like. Not actually using the phrase ‘Operation Frankenstein’, for one thing, and keeping to myself the way my own Chestnut-haired Old Mother accused me of attempting to breed an army of clones to take over the world. I also tried to use sentences that told a complete story in themselves, so that no part of the sentence could be used against me later. (“I mean, it’s not like I’m desperate for attention-” “Beshemoth: ‘I’M DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION!‘”)

*(Look, making myself out to be a moron, in my own words, on the internet, is somehow different, okay?)

It took over an hour. I thought they’d just want a one-liner or something, (‘Operation Frankenstein is a piece of piss, honestly, try it, you’ll be a Saint!’) but the journalist assured me they want to do a piece on ‘Saint Beshemoth, Bringer of Life to the Barren’ or something. Oh deary dear, I have a bad feeling about this. Or maybe it’s just the Lurgy. But she kept telling me I’m wonderful and heroic and stuff, and did I not think so too, making me suspicious that there was another shoe somewhere getting ready to drop. (“Beshemoth: ‘I’M DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION AND I THINK I’M WONDERFUL!‘”)

And sure enough, there was. Once the phonecall was over and I attempted to go back to bed, she phoned and phoned and phoned and became mighty peeved, as well as disbelieving, when I said I had no suitable photographs of myself to send her. Seriously, I don’t. I do not scrub up well, and as a result I hate aiming a camera at myself, and my shrinking away makes me look like a hunchback when anyone else tries it. I had a quick scout round the social networking sites to Show Willing, and came up with twelve pics where I’m at parties and slouching for Scotland (and wearing short frocks), three where I’m in bikinis, one where I had to draw the bikini on afterwards, and one of me skinny-dipping. Upstanding citizenship, this is not.

(Please note, despite what you might think, absolutely none of these are useful as wank material).

I even asked other people if they had owt, but Diesel doesn’t have that half-decent one of me wearing Proper Clothes, in the Outdoors and everything, anymore. Although he did suggest the one he took away back when, where I’m dressed as a redneck zombie hunter. (I use the term ‘dressed’ advisedly, although you can’t see anything x-rated. And the red on the crowbar is ketchup.)

(Ah, those were the days, when we were broke except for the beer-and-pizza fund and had to make our own entertainment on Friday nights. I.e. I dressed up ridiculously and he took photos of it. It was awesome. These days, I don’t have a beer-and-pizza fund, and have given up on dating because it’s embarrassing to have no cash at all to show someone a good time with).

Anyway, around ten at night, the journalist threatened to send a photographer round (lawks). The next morning. At the crack of dawn. Despite me telling her I’m ill and stuff. And she kept texting me after midnight, at that. Hello! Need beauty sleep! I wish I was joking.

And lo, when I rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, choking to death on what turned out to be my own snot, and had to try and root something out of the wardrobe that was not a) black, b) trousers, or c) short (ruling out just about everything I own) I had the first stroke of luck I had all week. Not only is the wife a fashion designer by trade, but she loves doing make-up! So much so that she also rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, and not only managed to make me look human (a heroic achievement in itself, I looked like the Hulk rolled in flour) but managed to make me look quite striking, even. Whoa! Without photoshop!

Then I had to hang around and not blow my nose at all for two hours, ahahahaha. It was not Scott of the Antarctic, but it was pretty damn annoying.

Not having a clue how these things work, I figured the photographer would show up, take one or two pictures of me sat on the sofa looking Demure and bugger off. Nope. We had three hours of pics, wardrobe changes, you name it and eventually he had the brilliant idea that we should take photos of me barefoot and pregnant. I shit you not. Since I am not pregnant (and the whole point of Operation Frankenstein is that someone who is not me gets pregnant) we had photos of me looking pensive, barefoot, with a pillow shoved up my jumper. Oh, don’t you have any jumpers that aren’t black, he wailed, so I obligingly brought through the eye-watering PWEI jumper with the sweary words on and the grey PWEI jumper with the guy on the skateboard with the gun. Black it was.

It now does not matter what the journalist writes, I will look like a lunatic who VERY desperately wants to be pregnant, (but somehow cannot figure out how to trip over and land on someone’s knob, one presumes). Cat ladies have nothing on me.

Anyway, having stood around freezing my arse off while ill (why does nobody listen to me when I tell them this?) it was nice to go back to bed already. At midday.

And when I got up it was Sunday and I had to gird my loins, go out and get the Sunday papers. Ooh crap. They are large and fearsomely expensive, but I reckon they will be good for repainting the bathroom. A massive hunt it was, but I eventually found a very small article next to a head-and-shoulders shot about an inch in diameter. Oh come on, all that effort for that?

At least it isn’t huge, like this photo underneath, said the wife, pointing to a massive black-and-white photo of an otter. No wait: of a beaver.

Oh my god, they ran my interview above a gratuitous beaver shot! This whole thing was worthwhile after all!

Even the lies. They said I’m a career woman. Snort.

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About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in cheese with that?, forever coming down with something, news, Operation Frankenstein. Bookmark the permalink.

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