ONCE again I am dictating this column from my sickbed. It's being inputted by a kind neighbour who has called to see how I am.
I am propped up with huge fluffy pillows and croaking out the words to her.
Imagine me as the late Dame Barbara Cartland, incoherent with gin, on a chaise longe, dicating one of her trashy romantic novels to a baffled and irritated secretary, and you'll get the right mental picture.
Except I am not wearing a fluffy pink gown, nor even what Kenn Dodd used to call a
"di-fanny-ous" baby doll nightie.
I am wearing a T shirt, boxer shorts and socks in bed, if you must know.
In fact, forget that Dame Barbara image, I am taking my current illness very much like a man - i.e. I am moaning about it a lot, wallowing in my misery and wondering if this is the beginning of the end and I am about to die.
Seriously, I've even been saying the rosary.
Today, I did manage to leave my bed to struggle up the hill to see my GP, Dr Shrug.
He looked into my gob with a torch and told me I had tonsilitus. Yes, and the rest, the 'flu symptons - "probably a virus", says Dr Shrug - and the sweating, the nausia, the headaches and the terrible weakness etc.
Dr Shrug shrugged, as he always does, and wrote out a prescription for penicillin. So now I'll have to take those as well as all the Beechams Powders, Buttercup Syrup and hot toddies I've been forcing down my lacerated screech.
Shrug advises me to stay away from work for what is left of the week, and rest, and to come to see him next week if I am still not well and need a sick note.
On the way out of the health centre I am asked to pick up of a self-certification sickness form, and while doing that I'm asked to fill in a form about smoking from the health Nazis who work for the Government.
Bloody cheek! What business is it of theirs if I have a couple of rollies each day (and none at all while I've been ill, actually)?
Anyway, I just wanted to let people know I am still alive (just), and normal service will resume when I am well enough.
Till then, love and kisses, Barbara (er, I mean Steve).
Time to be horizontal and sweating again. Pass me that hot toddy, will yer luv.
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