I heard tell, once, of a man who survived manflu. Perhaps if I hold hard I too could see this through. It started with the hurtythroat, oh my dear children. I suspected at the time that it might be something beginning, but not the manflu. Blithely I went about my business, visiting the apothecary who told me it was a minor infection and I should monitor it. But nay, for verily it is the manflu come upon me like a judgement in my manliness. It may unman me? Oh hell oh spite.
The hurtythroat, she is still of the ow. The bones? They do the ache now for verily the snot runneth from the nose and the not one but two eyes leak oh how they leak. And behold, I cough. I hack like writers of Daily Mail culture. I splutter as with the pollitick people as they starmer and bugger and flap. I pull deep into my body and lo! hideous vile things come into the world that were not there before, warped and strange, the exclamations of the trumpet, fit only to be spat at the roadside.
This morning is the first morning that Tessy didn’t frolic upon my head at 4am. I think she must have sensed my need for sleep and allowed it. Bless her.
I am back in London. The boats play dance music upon the Thames. I’m running a hot hot bath to try and sweat and steam this fucker from me. I’ve been learning Shakespeare for days and it isn’t in yet and it’s hard in isolation. And now this illness is upon me like the Spartans. It pulleth my resolve, niggleth at my throat, tickleth my tonsils. I am looking longingly at my sequestered antibiotics, but not yet, not yet, they are only for terrible infections, this is manflu. Nothing more. This is what my tonsils are for, to catch things like this high.
I will weather this storm of mild discomfort, much as every woman I know weathers something worse once a month for decades. And I will emerge strong and ready for Shakespeare in a field. Oh yes.
Oh God and I’ve got to get up and do a self tape before nine tomorrow. Just as well I’m pretty much ready for bed. Grumble.
AlBarclay 