As is the norm for my once-a-year cough, I have ensconced myself in various layers of unflattering but decidedly comfortable clothes. The T-shirt, which one can wear inside-out and back-to-front without it mattering, paint besplattered grey trackie bottoms, an over-sized zip-up stolen strategically from The Boyfriend about a year ago and never returned, ankle socks, normal-length socks, woolly socks...

The problem with coughs is that they are intensely annoying, perhaps even more so for the people who have to listen and endure and be contaminated than for the person who is doing the coughing. Or the coughee. In attempting to reduce the annoyingness, (drinking copious amounts of water, swallowing every two seconds, coughing inwardly i.e. not opening mouth to allow cough to vibrate through air in usual way...), I have exhausted every iota of energy I woke up with.

This means I can't, and shouldn't have to, bring myself to do anything other than watch several episodes of Six feet Under, listen to my new Magic Numbers album and curl up in beds or sofas with first Amy Tan - Saving Fish From Drowing, then The Curious Incident..., and finally Lolita (all of which I am determined to have finished by the weekend) with multiple cups of tea. And broth. Someone bring me broth!

This is the one time I allow myself to feel truly sorry for myself. If I didn't know better, I would diagnose myself with Man Flu.