BLOG WITH SIMON: Sucker punch

The dreaded lurgy has been visiting our house lately, but I’m not gonna bore you with stupid tales of hawking and spluttering and bodies drained of energy, willpower and most conspicuously, mucous.

I just want to say this: I wish I had shares in Kleenex – blessed confetti of contamination.

Alas, most of my shares are in Fairfax. Sniffle.

On a positive note, a visit from the dreaded lurgy is certainly a bonding experience for everyone in the circle of trust.

One minute your tribe’s a stranger to you, running left, right and centre chasing all manner of hopes and dreams.

The next they’re hunkered down on the lounge – a shivering moussaka of blankets and body sauce, topped with a solid bechamel of used tissue paper – celebrating, through misery, their newfound togetherness.

Really pulls into focus the difference between being healthy, and a beast marked for slaughter.

All this despite one member of our unit getting the latest, allegedly, ebola-resistant flu shot this year.

Hospital grade they said, although I’m not sure if they were referring to the antidote or the disease.

But after getting the dreaded lurgy, I wish they’d administered the shot with something more effective, like a rifle.

Seems a lurgy ain’t a flu, it’s a lurgy, and therefore unresponsive to shots, and thus dreaded. Which begs the question: what are the flu-shot companies selling – a penchant for jabbing?

All I know is if it coughs like ebola, and it snots like ebola, it’s ebola.

Or possibly worse. At least ebola kills quickly.

The dreaded lurgy leaves you on the precipice: able to perform basic functions like complain and whinge and drag your feet to work – where you can infect everyone else, with the best of intentions of course – but unable to really shake it.

Considerate, too, how at these times, mother nature turns on the gothic overtones of winter, complete with wind, rain and the odd death-eater thrown in.

But I’m not here to bang on about the problem. I’m here to offer a phlegm-free solution. And it’s not to shoot yourself either, although that will indeed work.

There is a less invasive procedure, and it’s called ‘‘the dentist’’.

Just when you thought you couldn’t feel worse.

The tooth monster has the perfect weapon to take your mind off the dreaded lurgy – fear.

That as they gaze down your gob, they’ll find something not covered by health insurance to work on.

Or failing that, they’ll just clean your teeth. Noooo.

Contrary to dental propaganda, this scarification process is more gruelling than getting your wisdom teeth out. They only remove those suckers once in a lifetime.

But old mate long-walls my sensitive teeth every six months. All in the name of friendly upkeep.

And I take umbrage to that because it causes the fingers, toes and legs of a grown man to twitch, like a sook. In fact, I think that’s what my dentist noted last visit because he asked me if I wanted a general this time.

But I opted out of the anaesthetic because children were present, and besides, it’s not covered.

I duly twitched, but the miraculous thing was it took my mind off blowing my nose for a while.

Mightn’t have been the same for the poor old dentist poised over my snorkel.

But nose-gazing comes with his territory I guess. A professional pitfall.

Bottom line though, all thoughts of ailment were briefly sucked up that vacuum they ram down your mouth when they’re grinding your nerve ends.

And for a short time, the dreaded lurgy was at heel.

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