Friday was one of those days. I had been up several times in the night vomiting Exorcist-style. After one final hurl for good measure I left the house to go and register at the Commune (Town Hall, sort of). Delighted that they had their own photo booth, but undelighted that it would not accept my €5 note, I shoved all my change in it, only to find I was 50c short. And it refused to give me back the money. My poor French, plus the fact I still felt like vomming on everyone, made it impossible to go and speak to staff about it. Fortunately a shop next door did photos and the result wasn't bad considering my advanced age, the desire to vom, and the sub-zero temperatures.
It turns out you can't register until the police have been round to check you out, but anyway. A couple of other things needed to be done across town and then it became obvious this was a gastric flu thing. Phoned in sick to work and went home to my bed, literally feeling like my body was shutting down, one organ at a time. I slept, and sweated, and slept, and sweated. Everything hurt.
What could have been an utterly rubbish day was perked enormously in the afternoon by a phone call saying I have an interview for the legal sec job with the partners of the law firm on Monday. You could have have knocked me over, had I not already been in bed.
Today the fever is gone but no appetite as such, and I'm still hurting in various places. I think I will mainly rest this weekend.