It’s winter. Worry about colds and flu. Religiously spend your time applying anti-bacterial handwash. And not just to your hands.
Stand up on trains instead of sitting next to sneezy people. Run away from snotty children in shops and parks. Upset your sister by running away from her children in shops and parks.
Offend your friends by spraying them with Dettol. Offend the office cleaner by not allowing her to touch your desk with her filthy germ ridden duster and clean your own desk, the phone, the printer, the photocopier and the door handles. Start thinking that Howard Hughes was right.
Begin using Dettol Green Apple flavour for perfume, a dab behind each ear. It feels Christmassy.
Look smugly at all the sick people. Get right through to the New Year holiday unscathed.
Start your holiday. And relax.
Start a fever. It’s not like the song. Peggy Lee and Elvis Presley pretended fevers were sexy – they’re not. This fever just involves sweating like a cheap horse. And having really bad hair. Like a cheap horse.
Nevertheless, swoon about in manner of pretty lady in big nightdress from Pride and Prejudice. Await arrival of handsome doctor in horse-drawn carriage.
No one comes.
This is because you are hallucinating. Get up and look in mirror. Realise that the only flowing haired, lacy nightdressed literary character you currently resemble is the first Mrs Rochester.
Go back to bed.
Spend a couple of hours crawling between bed and sofa. Wonder who moved them so far apart while you were asleep.
Take some work calls. Congratulate self on sexy, husky voice. Try not to get offended when clients think you are a man.
Say ‘My head is better, but my chest is worse’ to the boss. Fail to understand why he’s sniggering.
Food supplies are low. Think about getting dressed and going to shops. Look in mirror. You now resemble Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Await arrival of Nurse Ratched.
No one comes.
Go back to bed.
Frighten the postman when he discovers you in the hallway, crouching behind the front door like a savage, looking for food delivery leaflets.
Look in mirror. Realise that lack of human contact means that you have let yourself go to the point where you are starting to resemble a member of one of those lost tribes they discover in The Amazon from time to time. A small tribe obviously. Not small like pygmies, small in number. In that there’s only one of you left. With really scary hair.
Later there’s a bone in the hair, like cannibals in old cartoons wore. It’s a chicken bone from Dominos Pizza. You really are a savage.
Realise have run out of all supplies and much more importantly are down to your last tissue. Separate layers of tissue to make three tissues. Feel like Ray Mears.
Look for assistance on the internet. Order some expensive Japanese food from a restaurant service that will also deliver groceries on the side. Spend a stupid amount of money on sushi, toilet rolls, wine and fruit. Frighten the delivery man.
Blow nose gratefully on toilet rolls. Drink the wine because it is the nearest thing to cough medicine in the house. Gargle with it a bit because you know that alcohol kills germs.
Spend rest of evening eating the fruit with chopsticks for entertainment.
It’s freezing. Switch heating to maximum.
Several hours later wake up and find the sushi. It smells bad. It looks like a dead jellyfish.
Force yourself to get dressed, go outside and breathe in some refreshing sea air. Frighten some tourists.
Start coughing. Go back home. Cough up something that looks suspiciously like a jellyfish.
Resolve not to order sushi again for a while.
Happy New Year.