I woke up this morning broken. I had been feeling a bit off key last night before I got to sleep, despite having a reasonably productive attempt at sorting out the essential things that need sorting out before my trip away this weekend. However, it became apparent to me as I returned to bed that I wasn't quite on the top of my form.

This morning I woke up in the form of a puddle of myself (figuratively, not literally - I'm still not wetting the bed) that lay inert under the covers, unable to move more than the hands that work the snooze buttons. I contemplated whether I was just being lazy. I wasn't. I knew that I wasn't just being morning-slow, either, as I was clearly waking up - I know this because I started to realise how loud the alarm clock really is.

I couldn't move.

I considered ringing in sick.

I couldn't.

I'm going to London after work to see a show. If I play then I work. That's the deal. No taking a sickie, only to go out for the evening. It's not about fear of being caught, it's about fairness.

So, I'm going to see Evita, 9 days before it closes for good at the Adelphi. That's reason enough to try to muster some sort of muscular reaction from the heap of cells that I'd melted into. I sort of managed it.

My toothbrush, which had been charging in my bedroom overnight, filling the room with mini flashes of light (brighter than the energy saving lightbulbs I use, probably) like a landing helicopter might, was the most energetic item in the house when I eventually swaggered up to the mirror in the bathroom and attempted to use it to clean my mouth out.

I mustered enough momentum to get myself through the clothing process and into the car. Driving doesn't take much effort, especially with a good CD blasting away on the stereo. I was in the office about 5 minutes before the first meeting of the day.

I couldn't get out of the car. I didn't have the energy.

Well, I found something, obviously, or I'd still be there.

I ambled through the car park, across to the office building and headed straight for the lift. I couldn't even be bothered to get coffee, fruit, food, whatever. In fact, I was feeling slightly nauseous, and it wasn't, for once, work-oriented contempt bringing such a sense of nausea.

So, I'm now sitting in my seat in the office with a bunch of things to do before I leave, in the vain hope that I'll be able to complete them and that my team will be able to make sense of it in my absence next week.

Really, I'd prefer it if I could just curl up and die for a few hours. I'd like to come back to life in time to see Lloyd Webber and Rice's offering this evening.

Thank you.