Hello Dear Reader I seem to have finally shaken off the dreaded lurgy more commonly known as swine flu, and feel (almost) like a human being again, instead of something that staggered out of a George Romero film. I can sit upright, eat food and (most encouragingly) think coherent thoughts – after spending weeks with my brain feeling like an old 486 processor that is quite an achievement.

On the downside, I really must do something about my hair, all that neglect and lying around means it’s not looking good. How best to describe it? Umm. Imagine if a mad scientist kidnapped Robert Plant and Russell Brand and used their DNA to create some strange hybrid which he called Robsella, or Russberta …. you see what I mean? Alternatively, I could leave it like this and launch a new career – my existing one may be somewhat parlous after ignoring my poor clients for so long. As Robsella/Russberta, I could phone up elderly actors and sing the ruder Led Zep lyrics in a sarf-east accent while implying I’ve been jiggy with their offspring. That could work if I could a) sing and b) knew the phone numbers of elderly actors, otherwise it seems like a flawless plan.

I must also do the whole Christmas thing, because it’s happening quite soon I gather and I only have presents for two people. I’m guessing the others would like some too, so I should crack on with that.

Once I’ve done all that, I’m going to write to the government demanding the sacking of the person who writes the swine flu advice pamphlets because they give the impression that most people don’t become ill if they catch it. While they admit people with underlying medical conditions can become dangerously ill, they imply anyone else will only suffer “mild symptoms”. If the person who writes those leaflets thinks what I had was mild, I would really love to know their definition of  “NEVER FELT SO BLOODY ILL IN MY LIFE!”. I suspect this person may be the same one who issues the pregnancy books which describe giving birth as “somewhat uncomfortable”. Call me pedantic, but I believe sneezing is a mild symptom, and sitting on a lumpy cushion is somewhat uncomfortable. Anyhoo, this person appears to be giving healthcare advice in the style of the Monty Python Yorkshiremen, and they should be stopped!

A little aside: I can picture them, some gruff, jowly Fred Truman type, waffling on about how back in their day swine flu and a fortnight in Skegness* were interchangeable, and squeezing another person out of your nether regions was preferable to getting up three weeks before you went to bed, heading off to be flogged to within an inch of your life, and then paying the boss for his time. I almost wish I’d kept the copious quantity of sick I deposited in the bucket that became my new best friend; I’d send it to them, along with a note suggesting it might make a nice alternative to that shovel-full of warm grit they have for breakfast. (Too much info? Sorry.)

In other news: Not much to report, not moving for weeks on end makes life a bit dull I did do some reading though, – 4 books in 3 weeks which is an indication of how ill I’ve been, usually I could manage at least that number in a week – amongst which was The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a book I’d heard about but hadn’t got around to reading. (Thanks to Yvonne for the suggestion!) Written in the form of letters between an author and members of the society, it’s set just after World War Two, and relates the story of the occupation of the Channel Islands by the Nazis. It took me a chapter or two to get into it (that’s probably my fault, I wasn’t at my best) but once I did I found it thoroughly engaging. The author, Mary Anne Shaffer, manages to make the story quite light hearted, even humorous, but still deals with the hardship and tragedy suffered by the islanders with respect and a great deal of poignancy. If you fancy something a bit different it’s well worth a look!

Oh, was jolly pleased to see Rage Against the Machine get the Christmas number one I’m sure Joe Elderberry is delightful, but what he does has about as much relevance to real music as, well, my singing of rude Led Zep lyrics would. And I know that’s not his name, but I think it suits him, makes him sound like a cute, little woodland creature who got gobbled up by a big, bad wolf, which, if you think about it, is symbolic of his actual fate.

And that is all

*To be fair, a lot of people probably still think that now.

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