I’ve been doing a lot of nothing except shuffling around my house wearing two sweatshirts and groaning every now and again, hoping that at some point my fever will come down to something approaching normal (which is not, ahem, 38.7 degrees Celcius).
Yesterday I watched movies. All day. And I didn’t even get that too-much-television headache. I simply couldn’t move. Except to get up and drink a half-cup of apple juice.
So I watched Touching the Void, a truly exceptional documentary about two men who climb the west face of the Andean mountain, Siula Grande. Then, I watched Reese Whitherspoon in Vanity Fair, which I had high hopes for having absolutely loved Mira Nair’s Moonsoon Wedding, and I thought Hysterical Blindess, the HBO film she did was also quite good. But it’s kind of eh, the story never reaches the amount of tension it really needs to portray the tragedy and/or strength in Becky Sharp’s character.
And then, in a fit of absolute fever-inspired weakness, I watched Shall We Dance. No, not the original Japanese version, but the Hollywood one with Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon and Jennifer Lopez. Yeah, at the end, I bawled, and bawled, like a baby. What’s wrong with me? I decided enough’s enough and went to bed at that point. Maybe today the fever won’t be boiling my brain so much that I actually thought Shall We Dance wasn’t half bad. Ouch! Eck! Ow! Stop throwing things at me, I said I was sick, okay?