I have a stinking cold.

I mean, The irony of it all - the day before my 40th birthday. Actually,
if you ever wanted proof that the dumb hand of chance enjoys being as
ironic as possible, I think it's probably encapsulated in the fact that
I'm meant to be writing a letter on happiness for a performance next
month. I was going to wax philosophical about contentment and instead I
feel wretched.

And to add insult to injury, I managed to arrange my lunchbreak to
coincide with my opticians'. Clever.