One flu over this cuckoo’s sad nest

HERE'S HOPING: And with hands joined together in traditional tissue formation, we pray that the flu shot works this winter. ARTWORK: SIMON WALKER
HERE'S HOPING: And with hands joined together in traditional tissue formation, we pray that the flu shot works this winter. ARTWORK: SIMON WALKER

All hail the flu; the virus we didn’t  have to have this winter, but the one most of us probably got anyhow.

Possibly still have it. Another startling reminder of just how good it is to be healthy, and how stupid  to think flu shots work.

Really puts things into perspective when you’re coughing up your lungs, churning through tissue box after tissue box and wondering whether or not you should go to work and infect everyone there.

Or stay at home and infect everyone there.

Resilience, as ever, is the key.

Plus the hope that in these most undignified hours, days, months of our lives, someone will be on hand to make chicken noodle soup and put up with the moaning.

Not that chicken noodle soup does anything. (Or does it?)

As ever it’s a cure/endure scenario.

You can’t cure the plaintive, some might say pathetic, and at times outright amusing sufferings of the ill, but you will have to endure it. Safe in the knowledge that your time will probably come.

Like debates over same sex marriage and whether or not you’re a citizen of Australia for the purposes of being a politician, the flu does not discriminate.

Actually, it could be argued that just like those debates, the flu does discriminate. But that’s another story.

Oh yes, many souls took misguided solace in the idea that they had the flu shot this year and were immune to it’s ravages.

But how many such individuals eventually succumbed to the mutative mastery of this formidable lurgy?

Credit where credit’s due to the flu.

If only we could engineer that kind of never-say-die spirit in our sporting teams the Socceroos would have booked their berth to Russia already.

Not that world domination seems to matter much when you’re laid low.

The threat of armaggedon emanating from North Korea or the rollercoaster ride that is the Socceroos’ run to the World Cup tends to take a back seat to lesser questions: like whether that shadow at the door is the doctor or grim reaper. Who cares, as long as they can issue a medical certificate.

Never say die actually gets said quite a lot.

As in “I want to die” or “I feel like death” or “deadset, this flu is giving me the s...”

Usually around 2am as you steam up the shower in a bid to tame the coughing fits, having taken a draught of warm water, snorted a powder of crushed newt, before liberally applying a coat of Vicks Vapourub to your feet and hope there maybe something in it. Whatever works.

The seriousness of the situation could be gauged by the fact that at its height, we had to cancel a dinner party. Yes, it got that bad!

Having managed to sync everyone’s calendars  and lock in a date, we had to abort two days out.

The thinking being: it might be questionably OK to expose our guests to our cooking, but could we really justify exposing them to our infections.

And doesn’t that sum up the insidiousness nature of the flu.

Keeping us just sick enough for weeks on end to have bruises from the coughing, dehydrated from loss of fluids, hoarse to the point of ridiculousness, but still capable of contemplating a menu. Anyhow, now that it’s seemingly over, I’m reminded of a song.

I can see clearly now (through the conjunctivitis), the flu has gone (or has it?). Gonna be a bright sunshiny day (as soon as I get the strength back to open up the venetians and peer out).