The only time in my life I had the full-blown flu was twenty five years ago. It laid me low for two days, the second of which was spent in bed with a grumbling chest, a searing throat, a head full of thorns, and muscles which had developed a mysterious similarity to comatose earthworms. At 7pm I decided that a mug of hot tea laced with whisky would afford the shot of adrenalin I desperately needed, so I went downstairs and made one.
Approximately two minutes after the first sip I felt massively nauseous and hurried through the kitchen, beyond which lay the bathroom. Some time later – and I still have no idea how much time later – I woke up collapsed on the kitchen floor. The nausea had subsided, but feeling in no condition to dance a jig I went back to bed and slept until morning. I felt much improved the following day, and the day after that I went back to work.
And so arose the notion that poncy old flu was no match for this young, fit and eminently capable body. ‘No flu jabs for you, JJ,’ it proudly declared, ‘ever. Flu jabs are for wimps.’ But that was twenty five years ago and the tyrant has taken his toll in the interim. The body is no longer young, fit or eminently capable, and so JJ has bowed to the inevitable and stooped to the status of wimp. Sad, isn’t it?
* * *
Seems I was right about the post-operative trauma, though. Today I felt much better and spent some time clearing the autumnal detritus from the grids over the road drains. It will need doing about once a week from now until January. I wonder whether a certain little lady will pass by while I’m doing it. If only I had a lamp post to lean on…
(I wonder whether anybody reading this blog has ever even heard of George Formby. Even I’m not old enough to remember him.)
No comments:
Post a Comment