DIAGNOSIS

I've caught an unknown virus: I
would like to drop right here and die,
collapse upon the kitchen floor;
maybe I will but not before
I've ironed shirts and found the cash
for dinner money, riddled ash
from our wood stove, fed kids, dogs, fish -
I sense a mega-sneeze; "Attish ..."
the phone ... it's double gazing.."OO"
I started so I finish. Two
bonus explosions, she rings off;
I shiver, ooze, drip, shake and cough,
my nose is sore, my legs aren't there,
I've this strange feeling in my hair
as if it's turned to drowned sheep's wool
or strangling tentacles. I pull
what's left of me together and
prepare a tray with clammy hands;
broth, beer, asparagus souffle
for him who's been (since last Tuesday,
nearly a week) confined to bed.
"Poor chap," old Doctor Watson said.
"He needs light food and lots to drink,
plenty of rest and care. I think
he's down with one dread ilness you
will never suffer from - Male Flu.",

FACT TO FICTION TO FACT

I have a lovely cast-iron stove of French origin, delicately wrought and capable of giving off a marvellously cheering warmth. However, yesterday I worried that, in her temperamental fashion, she might also be exuding carbon monoxide and so went to my local store for an alarm/indicator. The owner told me that he had sold hundreds recently and had none left because of an episode in Coronation Street where there was an incident involving this deadly gas. Here is a prime example of fact influencing fiction which then influences fact in the form of supplies in shops. Yet, five ticks for the script-writers and five also for the elegance of my Gallic friend.