Today I am ill.

I hate being ill.

It started on Saturday with a sneeze. It was a big one that came from nowhere and I think I knew, immediately after it, that it wasn’t just a random, one-off, dust in the sinuses kind of sneeze. It left a dull, faraway ringing in my head like a church bell that’s hanging in a huge vat of syrup. Not good. Still, undeterred, I went for my first treadmill run in a very, VERY, long time and finished it feeling accomplished and exhilarated, banishing any thoughts of impending illness to the back of my mind.

Yesterday, the streaming sniffles arrived and my legs were stiff and aching. I attributed the aches to the treadmill session, stuffed my pockets with tissues and carried on with my day, ‘cheerfully’ mowing the lawns in the garden and ‘gleefully’ smashing some crockery in the kitchen. Did I mention that I hate being ill?

Today I am ill.

I woke up to find that a giant was performing some extreme tub-thumping inside my head, while all his giant mates were busy grinding my bones to make their bread. You know, it’s probably man flu. Yes, ladies, I know you’re all rolling your eyes in exasperation and muttering about the pain of childbirth but, seriously, it’s a recognised medical condition!

Secretly, I am harbouring the hope that I’ve ingested some kind of mysterious bacteriological alien spore and I’ll turn out to be Patient Zero in a world-threatening pandemic.

Just imagine. If the first symptoms were exhibited on Saturday, then I was probably infected sometime during the previous few days. I was in Torquay (sorry Torquay), where I met people from all over the country and abroad (oops, sorry). Travelling back on the coach on the Friday before ‘the sneeze that signalled the End of Days’ (sorry fellow passengers), we stopped briefly in Weston-Super-Mare (sorry), again at a service station near Bristol (sorry), Newport (sorry) and Cardiff (sorry) before arriving home (sorry, sorry, sorry).

Of course, no-one will realise the unstoppable nature of this disease until it is far too late. There must be thousands, maybe tens of thousands, already infected.

They’ll probably call it O’Neil’s Virus. Well, I always wanted to be famous. Father of the Apocalypse has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?

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