After the events of last week, I pretty much exhausted myself – as evidenced by the fact that since then I’ve been dealing with a heavy cold and nascent chest infection. It started up on the evening of the Thursday, once we were back from the Fat Duck. (Of which more in other post, most likely)
As usual, basically it all kicked in once I’d stopped. It’s pretty standard with me – I can keep on going for as long as I have to, and then once I’m done, it’ll all catch up and whack me with a hammer.
I was rough on the Friday, and the Saturday was the worst, although I hadn’t realised how bad it was until too late. I’d been at the parents and doing some other stuff, and started to drive home. I’d not been feeling great, but it was only once I was driving that I knew it wasn’t good. I’d burned myself out completely, and all I could do was just get home and that was it.
For the first time in at least a decade (and that’s something else I’ll come back to in another post) I found myself thinking that I wished I’d got someone else around, someone to call on, so I could get home safely. It didn’t happen, of course, so I just got on with the task in hand, and got myself home.
I’m truly not proud of it, of having carried on and done the dumb thing instead of pulling into a layby or whatever and having a sleep. I did get home, and did so safely, with no problems. But that was, to be honest, more by luck than judgement. I honestly can’t remember at least half the drive, but I know that if anything had gone awry, I’d have remembered it, so that’s kind-of sort-of reassuring in some warped way.
I effectively took Sunday off after that, changed all my plans so I could do as close to sod-all as I’d let myself do, and it was needed.
It’s all on the mend now, but man, that weekend was really no fun at all.