My long-suffering manager has begged me to register with a doctor. I have
wilfully avoided his counsel like the plague and yet, inevitably, it is the
plague that has now found me. I have paraded my influenza with a theatrical
melodrama that has inspired sympathy in my acquaintances and mild contempt
in my close friends.
Do not attempt to seek me out in my local tavern. You will find me wallowing
at home with only a radiator and a blocked nose for company. My signature
aperitif has been replaced with a cocktail of Berocca, paracetamol,
self-pity and regurgitated snot.
At least I can take comfort that I am not alone. Much of London seems to
have succumbed to this pandemic, which has stripped the capital’s nocturnal
hotspots of its mini-skirts, pukers and broken glassware. Weekend television
ratings must have skyrocketed. Pharmacists were probably celebrating record
profits as the city’s sick erotically smeared Vicks’ VapoRub all over their
breasts and chests. It has been a time of national crisis.
Ok, so maybe I’m overstating it a smidgen and magnifying the collective
sense of empathy. Such is my solipsism.
The point is, apparently I should not approach my ailment like a child
playing the central, terminally-ill, protagonist in a game of Doctors and
Nurses. Although my symptoms are unlikely to raise a concerned eyebrow in
the most compassionate medical ward, they do exhibit one crippling personal
defect: my voice. Or lack of voice, as any casual observer would note. It is
divine providence that Kites do not have a performance for another 12 days.
In future, I need to take better care of my greatest bodily tool. Alas, this
isn’t a pantomime featuring a prostrate Matthew Phillips. It’s the
difference between playing a live show and utterly humiliating myself.
wilfully avoided his counsel like the plague and yet, inevitably, it is the
plague that has now found me. I have paraded my influenza with a theatrical
melodrama that has inspired sympathy in my acquaintances and mild contempt
in my close friends.
Do not attempt to seek me out in my local tavern. You will find me wallowing
at home with only a radiator and a blocked nose for company. My signature
aperitif has been replaced with a cocktail of Berocca, paracetamol,
self-pity and regurgitated snot.
At least I can take comfort that I am not alone. Much of London seems to
have succumbed to this pandemic, which has stripped the capital’s nocturnal
hotspots of its mini-skirts, pukers and broken glassware. Weekend television
ratings must have skyrocketed. Pharmacists were probably celebrating record
profits as the city’s sick erotically smeared Vicks’ VapoRub all over their
breasts and chests. It has been a time of national crisis.
Ok, so maybe I’m overstating it a smidgen and magnifying the collective
sense of empathy. Such is my solipsism.
The point is, apparently I should not approach my ailment like a child
playing the central, terminally-ill, protagonist in a game of Doctors and
Nurses. Although my symptoms are unlikely to raise a concerned eyebrow in
the most compassionate medical ward, they do exhibit one crippling personal
defect: my voice. Or lack of voice, as any casual observer would note. It is
divine providence that Kites do not have a performance for another 12 days.
In future, I need to take better care of my greatest bodily tool. Alas, this
isn’t a pantomime featuring a prostrate Matthew Phillips. It’s the
difference between playing a live show and utterly humiliating myself.
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