The weekend that was

It hasn't really been a great weekend. I had thought I would make full use of the three-day vacation to read, write, read more and write more. All I managed to write was a long grocer's list, a very very long to-do list and another giant list of new resolutions. As for reading, I only managed to read the titles of the books by my bedside wistfully and reminding myself that I had a huge pile of books bought with every intention of reading but not opened, leave alone read. While the world was playing with vibrant colours, I was seeing red, because my house help had decided that she wanted to paint the town psychedelic and watch the colour drain away from my face. I did change colour though intermittently. I turned green with envy at intervals as I watched and heard people play Holi and become unrecognisable.
To add to it, I had and still have a nasty cough that decides to make its vexing presence felt, when I am in a meeting or talking on the phone. While my sides are aching from it, my throat is hurting and my head bursting, it continues to stay put. I feel exactly like Leela Chitnis, the ubiquitous mother in yesteryear Hindi films, who coughed her head off and died coughing. I hope to live on for some more time, and not die of something as unimportant and unromantic as a cough. Please, I don't want any suggestions for remedies. I have tried them all—spicy, sour, bitter—and in every form—liquid, solid, gaseous (yes, I've been inhaling boiled cabbage fumes, Karvol plus fumes and plain steam).
In fact, I also looked up Louise Hay's book which says that we cough because we've bottled up something we want to say to someone. The last few days, I have said all that should have been said and a lot that should have remained unsaid to a lot of unsuspecting people and earned many enemies in the bargain. What I could not say to their faces, I have spoken into a special pit dug for this very purpose and buried it all in the ground. I've coughed up all of it. It's been like a marathon confessional. All in the hope of stilling the cough. But it's stubborn. Like me. I'm hoping someone will call me up and remind me that I've forgotten to say something to them, and I will gladly speak my mind. Anything to get rid of the thorny feeling in my throat.
So, while everyone's back at work, with some remnant colour on their face, all raring to go, I'm sitting at my desk with a tissue, some warm water and lozenges bracing myself for the attack, hoping that my colleagues won't hate me for breaking the silence with my incessant coughing and worse, do something sinister to silence me.
The only silver lining is that I've managed to write, so what if it's about a #@+$#@#&***#@ cough? For a change, I'm not coughing. I'm smiling :).