Invariably, when I stop working for any reason (such as Christmas, summer holiday, the Elk Parade), within a few days of relaxing, I get ill. I don't mean that in an old school rap sense, I mean that in a shivering, nose-blowing sense. A week of nebulous illness, characterised by malaise and my own repeated claims that I am going to die.
So when I took two weeks off the comic (two weeks ago), I, like Mr T in Rocky 3, predicted pain. But as the two weeks were filled with nothing but high-octane, high stress business tasks, pestilence never arrived.
Now my two weeks are over, wasted under a pile of shipping materials and tax returns, I have to return to work. Unfortunately though, since I made the classic mistake of relaxing on Thursday and Friday, I am now sick as a dog.
Except of course, now I have to work while ill. I can't really write when I'm sick, so next week's comics are probably going to be pictures of microbes and extrapolations of some of the confusing fever dreams I have experienced in between waking up and feeling hot ten-millionty times a night. It's going to be awful.