The Fucking Flu

I was ready for a holiday and Bernard had been invited to his friend’s wedding in Canada. We decided to make a trip out of it and visit Los Angeles, New York, Canada, Melbourne and Sydney. The day came when it was time to leave and of course, because it’s me, I got the fucking flu. It was so bad that I almost didn’t go. But the thought of staying in Perth while Bernard was in America gave me strength to pull through. So, I grabbed my bags and my antibiotics and got on the plane.

Los Angeles was lovely but difficult. My whole week there was spent trying to recover and I had to miss the road trip to Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon so I could rest. When we arrived in New York I was all better and flu-less. We spent our days exploring the city walking around Central Park, eating Shake Shack, visiting the Williamsburg and Brooklyn Bridge. Then one morning after a terrible Italian dinner in Times Square, I woke up to some violent food poisoning. After a few hours sitting in our hotel room I felt a bit better and because I didn’t want to waste the day, I decided I was alright to go out. But I was not alright. In fact, I was far from alright. And I would soon find this out.

To be continue . . .