Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.


Friday, 28 May 2010


I have pneumonia.

It's taken a good 36 hours to establish this - 36 hours after the test results were issued, thanks to the language barrier - but I have finally been told that I have fully fledged pneumonia. Which (thank God) explains why I sat in the hospital car park yesterday and sobbed my eyes out because I was so goddamn hot and I couldn't find my car. At all. For half an hour. Despite having parked it there myself.

It also explains why I was so desperate to start a fight with anybody I could find on Wednesday. I always become utterly foul when I'm poorly.

"I don't feel that good," I told my colleague in the morning as I got hotter and hotter.
"You don't look sick," he replied.
I immediately took offence.
"What do you mean by that?"
"You don't look sick," he said a bit more slowly, confused by my aggression (this is Japan. They don't really do violence).
"What are you trying to say? That I'm faking it? Are you trying to accuse me of pretending to be sick?"
"No, I'm saying that you look pretty."
"Oh." Normally this would be enough to shut me up, but this time it wasn't.
"It's make up," I said. "Have you heard of make up?"
"It's what women wear to make themselves look like something they're not. In this case, healthy."
"So I am sick. Just to make that clear."
"Yes. And pretty." I'm sure he would have broken into an Alanis Morrisette track if he had only known it existed. "And bad tempered," he added when he thought I couldn't hear him.

That didn't work, so I made contact with England instead; they're much more prone to arguing for the sake of it. In particular, I made contact with an adorable boy I used to date a long time ago, who therefore knows just how foul I am and wouldn't be surprised in the slightest or stop being my friend because of it.
"Start on me," I demanded.
"Just start on me. I need to fight someone."
"I don't want to fight with you."
"Oh so help me God, what's wrong with you, you pansy: just start on me!"
"Ok, ok. Get off your arse and start writing your book."
There was a silence.
"That was really unnecessary."
"You told me to start on you! I didn't mean it."
"Start on me, don't start on my book."
"But... But... You wanted a fight!"
"Now I just want to cry."
"Do you need a cuddle?"
"Yes, but I can't have one because everyone is so goddamn far away."
"You're the one who's far away, Hol. Everyone else is still here."
"Oh whatever. You're rubbish."
And then I left him to get down on his hands and knees and thank every single lucky star that he doesn't date me anymore.

Colleagues and friends having therefore failed me, I went home and was greeted by the mosquito.
"What's up?" he said.
"I don't feel well," I told him.
He started hovering around me, looking suspiciously happy to see me.
"You're fat," I added. "You look like a marshmallow."
"Yes, I've been eating you a lot," he told me happily. "Can I have another nibble?"
"Oh for the love of God, do you have no shame? I'm sick."
"Just one?"
"No. Seriously, don't push me today. I'm not in the mood."
"Please?" Then he landed on my arm anyway and made to stick his little nose out like a hungry, sharp elephant. And I decided that I'm sick of the kind of love that hurts, and lost my temper.
"You little bugger," I said.

And then, reader, I squished him.

I'm going back to bed, with my pneumonia and my temperature and my incredibly bad mood, and I warn you: if you try and contact me - and especially if you don't - there will be no mercy.

The mosquito would now testify to that. If he only he still could.