The January lurgy is upon us.
I left Karen ill in bed when I dragged myself valiantly into work this morning. Valiantly because I too am slowly succumbing to the virus that is currently decimating my office. The place is littered with empty seats draped with gooey tissues and drying snot. Supplies of paracetamol are running dangerously low.
Everywhere about me I can hear the barking of inflamed throats and congested lungs, the perpetual sniffle of running noses.
In my mind’s eye I imagine the lurgy bacteria floating about the office like a horde of evil faeries. Every one of them has Leo Sayer’s face.
That is how I know I am sick.