The constant house guest. That stubborn bubble of fat on your inner thigh. Boris Johnson.
Some things simply will not go away.
Despite doing all within my power – from mainlining vitamin C to furtively leaning over and coughing on Napoleon whilst he sleeps – this flu is determined not to bid adieu.
I get it, really, I do.
A wise-cracking Yorkshire girl, I like to make people laugh. I will indulge conversation on topics diverse as the historical development of the Eurozone to the X Factor. I’m a good listener. If that’s your bag, my companionship is not too shabby.
The flu is lapping it up.
I have taken to a new hobby – having, as I do, little more for entertainment than the occasional thrill of a sneeze – to stave away the delirium that comes with being kept bedbound. It’s fun. You’d like it.*
With the central heating whacked to its farthermost setting, I sit in bed – propped amongst discarded tissues and Strepsils – and browse the internet, where I daydream over wintry, cosy clothes. Jumpers. Scarves. Long Johns. The tin foil section on Tesco.com.
Anything to keep the warmth in, frankly.
I have revisited these Burberry Prorsum coats more than most. There’s something of the Nancy Mitford heroine to them: I imagine draping myself grandly and – with a large, theatrical flourish of their tails – hamming my part as the sickened martyr.
Well, come on… I could act that better than Boris does being Mayor.
* You won’t. No one, with a life, would.