Man Flu At Christmas

There’s no doubt now, I have full blown man flu

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There’s no doubt now, I have full blown man flu. My gums and eyeballs ache and I awake at 3am with a mouth as dry as a vulture’s crotch.

I sound like that famous Russian aviator Dimitri Chestikov.

Despite my obvious distress Mrs Christmas is delegating various Countdown to Christmas tasks;

No.17 – troubleshoot and fix inefficient vacuum cleaner.

I suspect her sympathies are wearing thin. I think she’s plotting to leave me outside the tipi for the jackals and the wolves when the snows come in earnest.

I’m banished to the sickbay in the east wing of Lovegrove Towers and there’s a subtext to every question.

“How are you feeling?” translates as “Don’t you dare give it to me. Remember I’m out with the girls tomorrow.”

“Have you taken anything for it lately?” translates as “You’re really beginning to annoy me now.”

I clear the vacuum cleaner hose using a kebab skewer and out falls a glittery fur ball containing a the remains of some plastic snowballs, twine, and several pieces of bark.

I make it back to the sofa before collapsing. Just as I’m reaching for a walnut Mrs Christmas, having spotted something amiss upstairs, calls like an angel from above, “Ben. Can you hear me? OI, DEAFY!”

Send lemons, honey, and more whiskey.

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