Alas, dear reader, I appear to have succumbed to the lurgy. After a night of dyspepsia-induced tossing and turning, I awoke to find the Egyptian cotton sheets on my Comfilux bed here at the cliff top mansion awash with sweat.
In a moment of desperation during the small wee hours I called the NHS swine flu line, who were more of the opinion that my discomfort was due to making a pig of myself on a rather excellent vindaloo at a local curry house with some millionaire chums last night. And admittedly, I wasn't suffering from the blood under the skin, inability to breathe, drooling and fitting that they seemed to feel were important symptoms. But I'm taking no chances and have decided to seal myself in the filtered air environment of the Eastcliff panic room for the next few days. I have a plentiful supply of retroviral drugs prophylactically purchased from a Canadian supplier over the internet, and a freezer full of tasty Waitrose treats, so there's no need for any of you to offer to be my flu buddy, thanks all the same.
It'll also mean I won't have to suffer the ignominy of people around me shouting 'Oink!' every time I sneeze. 'Bless you' was so much more polite, I feel!