.. so C.S. Lewis once said. And while this is usually true for me any day of the week, today, while I am tucked up on the sofa in the midst of a flu that can only be described as miserable, despite having consumed more than my fair share of the former, I've had absolutely no patience for the latter. Instead, I've spent my day watching reruns in between broken naps.
Now I am no hypochondriac. Rather, I pride myself on rarely getting ill and, while I'm hardly health obsessed, I do tend to see any non-alcohol-induced sickness as a sign of weakness. This flu has humbled me; had I not been boasting just last night about not having been ill in about a year, maybe things would be different. Gah.
The highlight of my day did come, however, when Grease came on e4 in the afternoon. I always seem to forget just how good that film can make you feel. Coughs, splutters and sneezes aside, I managed to sing (or at least hum) my way through the whole two and a half hours. I have to admit, my favourite part is definitely the dance but it did have me lamenting the loss of dancing partners. Watching the students of Rydell dancing in formation and sidestepping in pairs to 'Tears on My Pillow' is pure dreamy and it got me thinking about how elegant it would have been to dance with a buachaill to the crooners of the 50s and 60s. Don't get me wrong, great matches have sparked in sweaty clubs the world over, it just has to be said that swinging to Frankie Lymon is always going to be more romantic than grinding to Flo Rida.
Oh, if there is ever a time machine..
