About a ten days ago I developed a cold. Nothing too serious about that and after a few days, I thought I felt well enough to swim and have my first rugby training since I left school. It was hard work and my lungs burnt savagely. The next morning, I was coughing up blood. Clearly, all was not well.
On Saturday, a thirsty chap, I finished the 20 litres of water, which had been delivered on Monday. For one bloke on his own, without tea and coffee, I was sloshing back 3.5 litres a day. And I was still parched.
Still, I had my second rugby training. My lungs seemed stronger and I hung on until cramp claimed me a few minutes from the end of the session. I took this as a painful moral victory.
On Sunday, I played tennis (Evo was playing football on the pitch below us, the bands were rather distracting) and then I really started to feel dreadful. After a very early night, I passed out, woke up, passed out again, until after 3pm the next afternoon. More than seventeen hours after crashing, I dragged myself out of bed. For an insomnia sufferer, this is a lot of sleep. I’ve started taking it a little easier.
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