This week the reality of having my arse handed to me on a plate from a bug that's floored me. It's the Weekly dose of reality 21st November.

I would like to begin by apologsing to my immune system. For years I have treated it like a reliable but underpaid civil servant: I assume it will show up, do its job, and prevent me from dying every time I accidentally eat a questionable prawn sandwich. But this week, my immune system staged what can only be described as a work-to-rule strike. The result was that I, a grown adult who once prided himself on being able to carry two shopping bags at once, was laid low by a microscopic bug so tiny it could probably fit comfortably inside a Tic Tac.  

The bug announced its arrival in the traditional way: by turning my throat into a sandpaper factory and my head into a helium balloon. Within hours I had gone from “slightly sniffly” to “Victorian invalid who must be wheeled around the garden for fresh air.” My family, sensing weakness, immediately began offering helpful advice such as “You should drink fluids” and “Stop moaning.” Meanwhile I was busy writing my will, which mostly consisted of instructions about who should inherit my half-used packet of Strepsils.  

By Day Two, the bug had achieved total victory. I was incapable of basic tasks such as standing upright, speaking in coherent sentences, or remembering why I had walked into the kitchen. My brain was producing thoughts at the rate of one per hour, and most of them were variations on “I think I might be dying.” I attempted to watch television, but every program seemed to feature people who were suspiciously healthy and not lying under a blanket surrounded by crumpled tissues.  

At one point I tried to make tea, which is the British equivalent of filing an insurance claim: you do it automatically in times of crisis. Unfortunately, I forgot to put water in the kettle, which meant I spent ten minutes staring at a pot of dry teabags and wondering why nothing was happening. This is the kind of high-level cognitive impairment that medical textbooks probably describe as “pathetic.”  

By Day Three, I had entered the bargaining stage of illness. I promised the universe that if I survived, I would start exercising, eat more vegetables, and stop pretending that crisps count as one of my five-a-day. The universe responded by giving me a fever so intense I briefly believed I was starring in a musical about penguins.  

Eventually, after several days of heroic suffering (by which I mean lying in bed and groaning theatrically), the bug began to retreat. I celebrated this victory by attempting to stand up, which immediately resulted in me lying back down again. Still, progress is progress.  

So yes, this week I had my arse handed to me on a plate by a microscopic organism. But I am proud to report that I fought bravely, complained loudly, and consumed enough paracetamol to stun a horse. And as I write this still wracked with coughing fits I’m sure you would agree: the only true cure for a bug is to write about it, exaggerate shamelessly, and then demand sympathy from anyone who reads it.