It’s OK, I’ll live. But I just thought I should tell you that I have manflu. Just in case you’re one of the few people I haven’t emailed, Twittered or SMSd to, you know, say how well I’m doing, under these difficult and adverse health conditions.
Oh, it’s alright. You don’t need to worry. I *know* I won’t get anything in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list. Not even a mention in next year’s New Year Honours.
But that’s alright, I’m not actually looking for a gong.
More like, looking for a chest to pin it on right now.
*sniff*
Sorry about that.
The body’s capacity to manufacture snot is something of a scientific marvel.
Not the manufacturing process per se, but the sheer volumes of the stuff? That’s amazing.
*koff koff*
But I’ll live.
Even though the condition I have has been scientifically* diagnosed as ‘Manflu H3 (miss, B7 bugger, you got me. Sorry, I stopped for a quick game of battleships with a friend in Sydney. Isn’t it amazing what you can use technology for? Anyway, where was I? Oh yes).
Even though this lethal strain of illness has been scientifically** diagnosed as Manfly, erm, no, Manflu (Manfly is a totally different disease. Don’t ask) Terminus. Yes that’s right. Manflu Terminus.
Even though that’s what I have.
Like Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive.
If I was fit enough I’d get out of bed and do a little dance. But I’m not. So I won’t.
And I plan on being back at work tomorrow.
*nods, emphatically*
So that’s me.
*big snotty sniff*
How are you?
*not really
**still not really