A Cutlass For Me Jar

This past week I have suffered from a most foul lurgy which sent me into pits of misery. The above title is the first thing that jumped into my head when I was trying to summon up a good description for my ills. Basically I have felt like an empty, delicate shell, shambling around in fear of setting something sharp and dangerous loose inside my soul.
At first I imagined the onset of influenza (as is the way with stupid, mere men) until I put my hand up and settled on the common cold. Day one brought the blocked sinuses and dry throat but there was something else too. Something which raked up and down my spine and attacked the bones like it was trying to tip me into an even more insufferable soup. (This is what had initially gave me the idea 'flu had somehow invaded my already toxic body.) I wished for sleep to bring me safe passage through the worst of it, but predictably no relief arrived with easy slumber.
This would have been Tuesday after swilling the usual grain the evening before, luckily however I no longer suffer hangovers otherwise I would have been in a damned sight sorrier state. Aches aside I decided it was a mere cold so ignored it and carried on with my work. (I have never been a fan of resting in bed to ease illnesses aa a previous hospital stint proved when, even at death's door, I stubbornly refused bed rest in order to wander the corridors looking for places to sneak a quiet smoke.)